


Exhaustion

by PericulaLudus



Series: Hurt/Comfort Bingo 2018 [13]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Bathing/Washing, Bonding, Brotherhood, Death Idealisation, Friendship, Gen, Gentleness, Love, M/M, Moral Dilemmas, Plans For The Future, Psychological Trauma, Recovery, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-26
Updated: 2020-07-31
Packaged: 2021-03-04 01:26:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 31,777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24935242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PericulaLudus/pseuds/PericulaLudus
Summary: After the siege of La Rochelle, the musketeers need time to recover and to reconnect with themselves and with each other. As they come to terms with the past, they also look towards the future. Can there be a future for them with the regiment?
Relationships: Aramis | René d'Herblay/Porthos du Vallon
Series: Hurt/Comfort Bingo 2018 [13]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1078923
Comments: 36
Kudos: 52





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is getting lighter, I promise, but the darkness lingers. Warnings for death idealisation and suicidal thoughts. Mentions of previous trauma including child death, the death of friends, lots and lots of death.

Athos’ feet were heavy as if his boots were caked with mud. Each yard closer to their quarters had seemed longer than the last. Porthos‘ snores rumbled in the small room. Athos hesitated at the door. The guard’s measured steps echoed on the flagstones, approaching down the long corridor. Athos sighed and pressed the door handle down. Awkward talk with some bored night watchman would be even worse.

The door slid shut and he stood still for a full minute, letting his eyes adjust to the darkness after the torchlit gleam of the hall. Porthos lay sprawled on his back, Aramis curled up on his side, as they always were. Dim moonlight fell through the tall window, making them look pale and waxen. He stood and listened to their mingled breaths, Porthos’ deep intakes of air catching in his throat before thundering out, drowning out Aramis’ quiet sighs and snuffles. They were both breathing.

Undressing took effort. He draped his sodden cloak over the single rickety chair and shrugged off his doublet. As he sat to remove his boots, his eyes fell onto the covered bowl, the pieces of bread, and the bottle of wine laid out for him. His stomach heaved at the earthy smell of onions.

Did they think him one of Richelieu’s pet cats? So spoiled he had unlearned how to feed himself? Helpless unless waited on hand and foot? Pet cat or nobleman, not much difference there.

He stripped down to his braies. The night was cold, storm clouds being chased across a sky as black as hell itself. He wouldn’t be warm enough without his clothes but freezing was better than the alternative. Even on his skin, the smell lingered. It enveloped him as he climbed into his bedroll. He always washed. He’d scrubbed his hands and forearms red just now, but to no effect. The sweet stench of decay oozed out of every pore.

He turned to his side, away from the two men. Another wave of his own smell hit him. His hair reeked of rot like he himself was turning to dust and bone. He should have lain down next to the last Huguenot they buried. The last in the last layer of corpses in the last pit they dug. They would fling dirt onto him, the heavy, marshy ground of La Rochelle. With every shovel of earth, he would disappear a little more. It would weigh down his body, obstruct his vision and finally, finally, he’d be breathing it in, his last memories of earth being the earth itself, the deep black ground swallowing him up.

 _Return to the earth, out of which thou wast taken: for dust thou art, and into dust thou shalt return…_ Words he’d heard so often. Every time they filled a grave, one of the strange, black-clad pastors would give the dead the blessing they had not had in life. He’d be buried a Huguenot, but what did that matter? With every day they had seeped a little deeper into his skin. Which hell he was condemned to would make no difference to him now.

He lost himself in fantasies of death and its eternal rest. He jolted back to full wakefulness when he realised it couldn’t happen. He’d missed his last chance. The last grave had been dug and filled. Whatever corpses remained in the city now were not his responsibility. He was back to only being responsible for the rot in his own heart.

In the corner of the room he spotted their saddle bags, already bulging with the belongings they had strewn across their lodgings over the past year. One, two, three pairs, his own included. Because apparently, he wasn’t able to pack his own things anymore.

Evidence of life, of moving on, of finally leaving this place behind. He should be glad. La Rochelle had not been kind to them. Aramis and Porthos had both come too close to death. Drowned, diseased, and disappeared. His stomach clenched at the thought of their pale faces in a grave, other bodies carelessly tossed on top until their open, pleading eyes could reach him no more.

Even victory tasted foul in this place.

He left their room before sunrise, trudging back to the pits once more. Row upon row of trenches stretched between the two lines of the walls. Simple wooden crosses stood at each end. Not nearly as many crosses as there were people beneath them. Thousands of people. Fourteen, fifteen thousand out here, with thousands more buried within the city before the gravediggers themselves had died or else become too weak to carry out their duties. Six or seven thousand they estimated before they either ran out of space or else they ceased to record the burials. With nobody left alive to remember them, the Huguenots disappeared under the ground as they had slipped from this life — unnoticed.

The fresh mounds of earth looked eerie in the November mist. In a year or so they would sink. One of the soldiers had told him. One who had dug graves before. Alain? Bruno? Didier? Athos didn’t remember. Too many men. Too many short little shifts. He kept them on a rota because he didn’t want anyone to face this horror for long. It hurt him to see this day after day. It had to be agony for better man than him. The least he could do was to keep the soldiers away from what their victory had won.

Would anyone be there to care for these graves? Most of the Huguenots were in them now. Whoever hadn’t been dead when they surrendered had followed soon afterwards, their broken bodies rushing from one hell to the next. Some poor souls still lingered. The fortunate ones had dragged themselves away. To other Huguenot settlements still scattered across France. To London and their protestant brethren in the case of Aramis’ former captor, the mayor. The poorer and sicker ones stayed behind, pale maggots in this corpse of a city.

Frost crackled under Athos’ boots as he walked. Winter would finish off the rest of them. Whoever hadn’t died of warfare, famine, and disease would die of cold.

He should stay. His mind conjured images of frozen bodies and nobody left to bury them. Life moved on, leaving the dead behind.

The army moved on.

A few regiments had gone before, ensuring the safety of the road. Once the king had finished his breakfast—early by his standards—the musketeers followed. Aramis rode with Tréville. From what Athos gathered, he’d been helping him collate information, reading through reports and planning their route.

Athos trailed behind, as far away from the core of the regiment as he could be without getting surrounded by their baggage train. With the king in their midst, there were dozens of wagons with supplies following them. Too many people. After weeks surrounded by the dead, Athos found the living rather too lively for his taste.

Porthos, as usual, did not respect his desire for privacy and sought him out after only a mile or two.

“Hey.” He guided his horse next to Athos’. “Good to see you in the daylight for once.”

Athos shrugged at the implied reproach. “Work to do.”

It wasn’t like he’d chosen to spend every waking hour burying the dead. Well… he had chosen it so nobody else would have to. Not for long, at least. He hadn’t been able to bury them alone and that still rankled.

“How are you?” Porthos asked.

“Fine.”

He kept his gaze fixed on the road ahead. One advantage of big military campaigns was the infrastructural improvement they brought. The road was smooth even in this inclement weather, the few puddles shallow and easily circumvented.

“Really?”

Athos didn’t need to look up to see Porthos’ raised eyebrows, he could hear them in his tone.

“Yes.”

“Athos, would you—”

“I’m fine.” He was. He was here, he was riding, he was doing his duty. He was fine.

“Would you believe that the cardinal insisted on taking his writing desk back to Paris with him?”

Athos made the requisite noise of interest or surprise or whatever else he was supposed to fake and tried to direct his horse subtly away from Porthos who chattered away about the eight men it took to move that walnut monstrosity.

“How about you?”

Athos’ head shot up. This required more than a grunt but he wasn’t sure what was required of him. Some light-hearted story, he supposed, but where was he supposed to find one of those?

“Nothing much.” He shrugged. Porthos only had to use his nose to know what he’d been doing.

“How are you feeling?” Porthos asked.

Athos shrugged again, painfully aware of how repetitive the motion was getting. There was so very little to say.

After a few more minutes, Porthos gave up, spurred on his horse, and left him to his brooding. It was better that way. Porthos had a life to live and Athos brought nothing but death.

They continued like that, moving slowly through the barren, wintry land. They found lodgings in monasteries and stately homes, everyone overcome with the honour of hosting their sovereign, or maybe with the horror of the expense of it all. Athos kept to the back and kept to himself, which was easy enough with Aramis who was kept busy by Captain Tréville but proved more and more difficult with Porthos. Porthos hovered ceaselessly and tried to monitor every bite he ate and every sip he drank. Athos slipped away whenever he could.

One day slid into the next and the next after that. Athos didn’t much care. Each day they rode. He liked riding. The comforting closeness of his horse, the shift of warm muscle beneath him, so alive. Each night they rested. He didn’t like that. Porthos tracked him down each night and directed him towards a space by their side. Then came the hours and hours of shivering in the dark, hoping for morning.

A week or so into their travels, they reached Châtellerault, a prosperous town on the banks of the river Vienne. No matter where they were, La Rochelle followed Athos with its odours of death and decay. He stank of it still. He could only imagine what Aramis and Porthos suffered, having him close each night, reeking as he did. Châtellerault was notable only in that he had managed to find himself some hot water and a bar of soap. He scrubbed his arms vigorously, his face, his hair, and most of all his hands. Small fissures opened up in the cracks of his knuckles, shining red in the dim light.

“Athos?”

He wheeled around. Aramis, not Porthos for once. Why did he bother? He had enough to do with Captain Tréville and an increasingly ill-tempered king.

Aramis looked at him, questions in his eyes. Questions, questions... He could keep his nosiness to himself. Athos pulled his sleeves down over his prickling arms and shrugged on his doublet.

“What?”

Aramis smiled at him. “Tréville wants to speak to you.”

Athos jolted. Tréville wanted to ask him to leave. To go away, to not tarnish them anymore. He’d have to disappear back where he came from. Take his stench with him. He knew that wasn’t right. He’d done his duty. They’d all done their duty and Captain Tréville thanked them for it frequently. It wasn’t the fear of being sent away that shocked him, it was the lack of fear. For the first time since joining the regiment, not being a musketeer filled him with nothing but indifference. It wasn’t so different after all. His old life or the new one, in both he did his duty, buried people, then had them come back to him in his sleep, haunting him with their sepulchral voices and accusations. Only one voice back then, mocking and shrill, and now the chorus of thousands joining her in death, accusing, questioning…

“Athos?”

Startled, he looked up at Aramis, who was still standing in the door.

“Yes, of course.” He followed him out of the room and to Tréville’s chamber where Porthos greeted them with a broad grin.

It was a nice room. A great bed with a heavy canopy stood on lush carpet. By the large window there was an expansive desk where Captain Tréville had scattered his things. He looked oddly out of place. The plump pillows and rich fabrics were about as far removed from his usual spartan furnishings as they could be. Athos kept himself as far away as possible from the furniture. He didn’t want to infest it with his scent.

Captain Tréville rose when they entered and smiled.

“Athos, I’m glad you could join us.” His voice was bright, but oddly pressed, like he was trying too hard to stay friendly. His choice of words was strange as well. What else would Athos do? He was only there to follow orders, to await word from his commander.

“I’m sorry to bother you.” Tréville beckoned for them to sit on the bed for lack of any other chairs, but only Aramis did so, looking quite at home on the ornate fabric.

Athos could feel the clouds of death waft from his body. Any moment, one of them would throw open the window, gagging for air.

Tréville scrubbed a hand over his beard. “I’m sorry to have to ask this of you.”

Porthos bounced on the balls of his feet, leaning forward with glowing eyes. Aramis dropped back onto the bed, supporting himself on his elbows, fingers idly playing with a loose thread. But Athos couldn’t fail to notice the hesitation in Captain Tréville’s voice, the slight hitch of discomfort. This was all very reminiscent of that doomed first excursion into La Rochelle. Where was he sending them now? He wasn’t a cruel man, he wouldn’t ask needlessly, but he was, above all, a man of duty. He’d send them where they were needed most. Athos wished he could anticipate their orders as eagerly as Porthos, or with as much indifference as Aramis, but he felt only dread.

“I need your assistance for a special mission,” Captain Tréville said. “You have to leave the main party tomorrow and ride East. Aramis knows the rest.”

He rooted around the cluttered desk and handed Aramis a large, sealed envelope. “Do not open this until you reach your destination. You will find in this a letter and also some coin to… ease the way.”

He put so much emphasis on those last words that Athos’ stomach clenched. How difficult was this mission going to be if they had to resort to bribery?

“Take your time with this. The king wishes to stay at Chenonceau for a few days to hunt. I do not expect you there for at least a week.”

That castle was no more than a day’s ride away. Athos’ throat constricted with the sense of foreboding. Six days to complete whatever needed doing. The quiet ride back to Paris had suddenly turned ominous.

A hand on his shoulder made him jump. He stood very still, fighting every instinct to shrug it off, answering Tréville’s friendly gaze as best he could.

“I know that I’m asking a lot, but it is of the utmost importance that you carry out this mission, Athos.”

Athos swallowed against the growing tightness. It was not in Captain Tréville’s nature to be so vague and mysterious. Whatever this mission held had to be of a particularly secretive nature for him not to divulge any details. Either that or he feared they wouldn’t follow his command if they knew…

Athos pulled himself up straight. “We will do our duty.” He could not stand this lack of certainty in his captain’s face. “It is an honour to follow your command, Captain Tréville,” he added.

Captain Tréville nodded thoughtfully and Athos took the opportunity to take a big step back, losing the hand on his shoulder. Maybe too quickly. He did not miss the meaningful glance that passed between Porthos and Aramis.

Captain Tréville himself saw them off the next morning. “One week,” he reminded them. “I understand you are eager to return to Paris but give it one week.” He nodded. “I’ll see you in Chenonceau. Take care, Athos.”

Take care of my men. Athos heard what he meant. Don’t let them get hurt. Not any more than they already were. That siege had taken its toll. As they rode from the town, Aramis heaved a great sigh. Athos was struck by how tired he looked.

Porthos had been coughing for several days now. Another week of riding in this wind and rain would do him no favours. Aramis’ dire warnings about the impact of Porthos’ childhood on his long-term health sprang to mind. The long reach of hunger… the big eyes in the emaciated faces of the Huguenot children… their bony bodies no weight at all as he threw them into their graves. The soldiers who bit their lips to keep from crying when they saw them, reminded of their own children back home. To Athos they were Porthos. Even the flaxen-haired girls. They were all Porthos. Every starved little body.

He tried to keep his distance from his companions as they rode, but they wouldn’t let him. Objectively, they were right, of course. There were plenty of Protestant insurgents still roaming these lands. Aramis had shared some reports from their scouts with them that morning. They had to stick together. As uncomfortable as his presence might be to them, at least he was one more blade, one more shot when they were attacked. One more body.

“Where are we going?” he asked. He wanted to be as content as Porthos, who was grinning from underneath his sodden hat, happy to go wherever he was needed. But his own was a much smaller heart. He clung to information.

“La Roche-Posay,” Aramis said.

“The baths?” Athos had a vague memory of the name being linked to some healing springs. Maybe his mother had bought water from there as a tonic to brighten her complexion.

Aramis nodded. “Only another ten miles or so.”

Athos wracked his brains for any mention of the place. Had there been a Protestant uprising? If so, they’d hardly send only three of them. Another rebellious landowner? Were they delivering a letter of warning? He loosened his pistol in its holster. If they were that close to their destination already, he had to be on his guard.

The ride lasted no more than three hours, even at the leisurely pace Aramis had set for them. However, they hadn’t left as early as they had wanted to, so they had a light lunch in a sheltered dell by a small stream.

Athos filled their waterskins with the clear water and lingered over it for a long time. His hands turned numb from the cold, but it made him feel no cleaner. He was reminded of the frozen hands of the dead. The tightly curled claws of the recently deceased… he relaxed his fingers and imagined the water stripping the flesh off them until nothing remained but the small, white bones…

“Let’s see what this is all about,” Aramis said when Athos returned, perching on the end of the fallen tree they occupied. He fished the envelope Captain Tréville had given them from his doublet.

“He said not to open it until we arrived,” Porthos said.

Aramis tilted his head from side to side, thinking. “We’re close,” he said eventually. “I’d rather know what we are getting ourselves into.”

Athos nodded. “We might want to take precautions.” He might want to. Because he needed to protect them. Captain Tréville had no choice but to send them where they were needed, following commands from their king and cardinal. It was down to Athos to ensure they were safe in carrying out their duty. What else was he good for?

Aramis broke the seal. Captain Tréville’s personal one, Athos noted. Direct orders, not passed down from Richelieu. He felt a small flicker of warmth at that.

Aramis piled coins onto the fallen tree. Quarter-francs, half-francs and several golden francs. A more than generous allowance. Enough for a bribe? Depended on who they were bribing, of course.

“We should divide that between us,” Porthos said. Maybe that was why Aramis had wanted to open the letter now. He must have felt the weight of all that money.

Athos’ limbs were tingling. He restlessly shifted in his seat. What were they expected to do with all that money? Did it come from Captain Tréville’s personal coffers? Was this a mission only condoned by him? If so, who were their enemies? Or was this Captain Tréville sending them away? But why would he? Athos, yes, of course, but not the others. He cared for Porthos and Aramis.

The instructions in the letter gave no clarity. After Aramis had read it out, they looked at each other. Porthos looked as confused as Athos felt.

“He wants us to stay in La Roche-Posay for the full week?” Athos asked.

“ _’Take a room at L’Auberge de La Roche’_ ,” Aramis read out again. “ _’Do not leave until Monday in a week’s time.’_ ”

“And this…” Porthos ran his hand over the pile of coins. “Is our pay…”

“ _’You are ordinary soldiers returning from the siege and are stopping on your way home for some rest and recuperation’_ ,” Aramis read. Their alibi. Their cover story, but cover for what?

“Is there anything else?” Athos reached for the envelope and upended it. It was empty. Why? What was the purpose of all this? How could Captain Tréville send them away for one whole week without any clear instructions?

“Have we done something wrong?” Porthos asked. His brows creased and his shoulders curled forward. “I know I haven’t been…”

“You’ve been great,” Aramis said. “You helped so much in breaking down our camp.”

Porthos rubbed his knees. “Maybe I should have helped Athos more.”

“No,” Athos and Aramis said as one. They looked at each other. Anything but that. While they didn’t know the details it was clear that Porthos had seen enough death and devastation to last a whole lifetime.

“He’s not sending you away.” Aramis covered Porthos’ hand with his own. No, never Porthos. Only Athos.

He’d done his duty, outlived his usefulness. He’d been sent away. No way back to Paris for him. He looked around the flat land, the barren fields around them. Not too different from Pinon. Would he go back there or somewhere else? He could go, of course. It didn’t really matter. He had options. It wasn’t important. He could go elsewhere. Buy himself some small house. Live out the remainder of his days. This was as good a place as anywhere. Better, maybe. The Loire valley was close. They grew good wine there that would help him shorten his days.

Despite the worsening rain, he insisted on circling around the village, exploring it from all sides before entering. It appeared sleepy and grey, houses of roughly hewn stone clinging to the bank of the river Creuse, clustered around a stocky church and a mighty medieval keep. While the town was walled, it seemed to have little need of its paltry defences. Several houses had been built outside the walls, a smithy and several cottages with pigs and chickens rooting around their gardens.

There was no indication of why they were here. It seemed unlikely that there was any danger to be found in this place. The _L’Auberge de La Roche_ turned out to be an entirely unremarkable inn at a small square next to one of the gates in the town wall. They led their horses to the stables at the back but were met only by a sleepy grey cat. If Athos had hoped for some clandestine meeting in this inn, he would have been sorely disappointed. The salon was empty when they entered, except for a shaggy dog spread out in front of the fire. It came over to greet them with a sniff and a wag of the tail before its owner bustled into the room, a strong smell of meat wafting after her.

“Come in, messieurs,” she cried, drying her hands on her apron. “Come, come out of the rain. You poor things, you must be frozen solid. Come, come, Odette will take care of your horses.”

“Madame.” Aramis bowed to her, but she seemed impervious to his charms, unceremoniously bundling him onto a bench.

Athos went on his own before she could touch him, so she focused her efforts on Porthos, fussing over them all like a mother hen. She took their sodden cloaks and draped them over chairs by the fire, rousing the dog who had just settled down again. It trotted over and rested its head on Porthos’ knee, looking up at him with pleading eyes until its ears were dutifully scratched.

Athos felt instantly uncomfortable. He shifted as far away from the others as he could, but there was no escaping their hostess’ fervour, especially not after Aramis had told her they were veterans of the siege. In her eyes, that made them heroes and great patriots rather than the dregs of society that they were. When Porthos complimented her for the spiced wine she served, her face shone with delight. Athos barely touched his cup. He was too warm already. The air in the room was stuffy and he felt like the whitewashed walls were closing in on them, choking him.

He shouldn’t be there.

Whatever this was, he shouldn’t be part of it. Not that he begrudged the others the comforts of an inn, but he’d much rather camp in some field. The very cosiness of this house made him feel out of place. His presence could only spoil it.

He was about to get up and leave when their hostess announced their room was ready for them. Porthos slung his arm around Athos’ shoulders and left it there despite his best efforts to duck out from under it. In that way he found himself steered up the stairs and into a room he assumed qualified as comfortable, in some bucolic way.

As soon as the woman left them alone, Aramis dropped his bags where he stood and flopped down backwards onto the bed closest to the door.

“Heavenly,” he declared. The smell of fresh straw spread through the room.

“Not in your dirty clothes,” Porthos complained as he shifted Aramis’ things to the corner of the room. “You’re messing it all up.”

Porthos himself put his bags into an orderly pile before removing his boots, doublet and trousers, smoothing them before hanging them over the back of the middle bed. He pointed towards the third, at the back of the room opposite a large window.

“You heard her,” he said. “Dinner’s not until seven. Might as well lie down.”

Athos didn’t. He sat on the very edge of his bed, as if that would not contaminate it. Porthos bustled around, removing Aramis’ boots for him and collecting various garments as Aramis took them off and dropped them haphazardly around his bed.

When Porthos finally sat down, Aramis shoved his feet into his lap, lying sideways across his own bed. Porthos wrinkled his nose as he carefully peeled off socks that had been darned so many times their original colour was indistinguishable. Aramis sighed contentedly and curled himself around his pillow when Porthos started to rub his bare feet.

Athos eyed the door, plotting his escape, but he knew it was pointless. They would stop him, for whatever reason. Some sense of duty, he supposed. But if Porthos disliked the smell of Aramis’ feet, how much worse must Athos’ presence be?


	2. Chapter 2

“I’m not hungry,” Athos said.

Porthos’ eyebrows shot up. “You haven’t eaten anything today. That little bit of cheese at lunch doesn’t count.”

He held out his hand to help Athos up, but Athos turned away. Which did nothing but bring him face to face with Aramis.

“The wine’s good.” Aramis winked at him.

“I’m fine.” Athos looked out of the window, raindrops obscuring his vision. It wasn’t a lie. He wasn’t hungry or thirsty in the least. He just wanted… nothing. To forget and be forgotten. Think nothing. Be nothing.

They didn’t leave him be. They grew worried. And he couldn’t do that to them. He couldn’t stand that look on their faces. They’d had so much to worry about. Aramis nearly drowning, Porthos nearly dying, then Aramis’ captivity… So much had gone wrong. And he… he was fine. He shouldn’t make them worry.

They found the inn mercifully empty, except for the landlady and her daughter. The girl had to be in her early teens and was evidently frightened by Athos’ presence, half hiding behind the kitchen door, peaking out occasionally to look at them. Another person he was hurting.

Dinner was good, he supposed. The two women served up great plates of sausages in a rich sauce that smelled strongly of onions. Roasted parsnip accompanied the meat and they were given large pieces of bread to soak up the flavourful sauce. Athos’ stomach roiled after a few bites. He took to picking apart the bread and moving around the pieces on his plate. Porthos and Aramis praised the wine, but to him it was vinegar.

They sat downstairs for hours, their hostess asking them about the siege and the king she adored. Her daughter slowly warmed to Aramis’ playful flirtation. Athos withdrew further and further into his corner, trying to make himself as unobtrusive as possible. Nobody wanted him there to ruin their night.

Past midnight, Porthos announced that truly, Aramis had had more than enough to drink and should get to his bed while he could still manage the stairs. Everyone laughed at Aramis’ protests, especially when he theatrically stumbled against the hearth. More laughter followed when Porthos unceremoniously threw a squealing Aramis over his shoulder and carried him up the stairs despite his protestations that he could very well walk on his own two feet. They promised to leave their washing in front of their door and the women promised to have their clothes laundered and dried as soon as possible. Everyone except Athos went to bed in a buoyant mood.

Athos lay awake listening to the others snore. Other than that, the night was silent. It had been different in their quarters in Aytré. There was always someone awake there, at the very least the guardsmen walking the castle’s corridors. Here, there was nothing. Just a little country inn, two women downstairs who hadn’t learned to be afraid of soldiers. Simpler times. Two musketeers sleeping soundly. Peace. That’s what it had to feel like.

To Athos it felt suffocating. Where was his place in peace? He’d shown his mettle in war. He’d shown skills he never expected to have. He could lead men into battle and keep a cool head in the midst of a fight. He could use stealth and persuasion when necessary. He was a good tactician and easily kept an overview of supplies for an army. But that was it. This new life of his was built on war. Was built on them killing people he could bury. He had been useful for a while. And now? They didn’t need him anymore. Captain Tréville didn’t. Nor did his friends.

He lay flat on his back, trying not to get overwhelmed by these thoughts. Of course he could go elsewhere. He had options. It would be fine. It would be… survivable at least. His mind went back to the dark days after… after his previous life had ended. He could try and drink himself to death once more. He’d been better, for a while, because he had reasons to be. Aramis and Porthos, Captain Tréville and the regiment. But that didn’t mean he couldn’t go back. It didn’t take much. He still drank, and heavily if the mood took him. He could easily… And yet it felt wrong. He thought of men he’d buried. Men his age or younger. Men who didn’t have a choice, who didn’t pick their own death. Who was he to take that right for himself? Did he think himself any better? Had he really learned so little that he would throw away his life, a strong, healthy body and all the luxuries he could afford?

At some point, he must have fallen asleep. He slept dreamless and deep and woke with the same thoughts on his mind that had occupied him the previous night. The only difference was the light. The rain had gone and soft golden rays shone through the window, broken into many facets by the glistening drops of mist and rain. A small movement made him look up. Standing in the pool of light, their silhouette outlined against the window, stood Porthos and Aramis.

They didn’t notice he was awake. They were too engrossed in each other. Aramis had slung his arms tight across Porthos’ waist, pressing their bodies together. He ducked down a little, making the negligible difference in their heights more pronounced so he could nestle his head against Porthos’ broad chest.

Aramis had his head turned towards the window, so all Athos could see of him were his curls. Most of the rest of his body was covered by Porthos. Porthos enveloped him in his arms, his big hands resting low on Aramis’ back. He had his face buried in Aramis’ hair and was breathing deeply, his shoulders visibly rising and falling, as if he was committing his scent to memory.

With a soft snuffle, Aramis shuffled closer. Porthos obligingly broadened his stance so Aramis could stand between his feet. Both of them were in their underclothes, and maybe part of Aramis wanting to be so close to Porthos was his search for warmth. It wasn’t the main reason. Athos knew that.

He couldn’t look away. The two friends held each other as tight as two people could. He was reminded of all the times when they had nearly lost each other. This was usually their response, this search for contact. But nothing had happened now. Nothing looked likely to happen any time soon. They were safe here. They didn’t have to fear. But they still embraced each other as if their lives were on the line. Two drowning men, once more. Not drowning in water but drowning in life this time. Life and all that it had thrown at them.

Reassurance, that’s what it was. Reassuring each other that they were safe.

He felt like an intruder, like a spy seeing things that weren’t meant for him. Maybe this was the feeling of a paramour, caught out by his lover’s husband, and hiding under the bed, watching what wasn’t rightfully his.

He was mesmerised by the sight. They were almost close enough to touch and yet they seemed so far away. Like the stars, he could see their light, but would never feel their warmth.

Porthos shifted his head and Athos froze. He had been caught and for a moment he couldn’t move, lay frozen like a deer facing the hunt. But Porthos only moved a fraction of an inch to press soft kisses to Aramis’ head. He was murmuring, but not loud enough for Athos to catch the words.

He had to leave.

They didn’t notice at first. He had already thrown on his doublet and reached for his trousers by the time Porthos lifted his head, blinking at him with bleary eyes.

He had to go.

He slammed his hat on his head and grabbed his boots, then fled from the room like a thief. Indeed, he felt like he had stolen something that could never belong to him. That tenderness, that love…

He thundered down the stairs in his socks, not pausing to put on his shoes. As the door fell shut behind him, he heard Aramis call his name. He didn’t stop to listen. They needed space. They needed to be free of him, the intruder. He could give them that, if nothing else.

He jammed his feet into his boots, listening for any sign that they would follow. He hoped not. Let them stay, let them enjoy themselves and their time together. Let them be.

“Monsieur, I was just—“

He didn’t listen to the woman but barged past her and out of the door.

They had slept late. The sun was fully up, so it had to be half past eight or even later. Why had he done that? After weeks of rising before dawn, why had he chosen this day to ruin it all? Why couldn’t he give them their space when they needed it most?`

He didn’t look left or right. With some effort he tempered his steps into a walk rather than a run. He pulled his hat down low to try and avoid the eyes of the villagers. Why were there people everywhere? Because they weren’t dead, he realised with a jolt. Because not everyone was dead here. People lived their lives in this town, this normal town. He’d been surrounded by the dead for so long, he hadn’t realised that life was still going on.

Stupid. Of course everyone had their lives. Just because he didn’t, didn’t mean nobody else could.

He walked out through the gate, trying to escape from prying eyes. He didn’t know where he was going, only that he didn’t want to stay. He was doing it again, clinging too much to another, making his life all about them and of course that never ended well. They were so kind, they kept him around, they took care of him, but in the end, of course they didn’t want him there. It had always been Porthos and Aramis. And Aramis had tried hard enough to keep it that way before he too had been swayed by pity to tolerate Athos’ company. Who did Athos think he was? Somebody’s friend? Did he really think they would want to sully themselves with his presence?

He’d outlived his usefulness, had outlived their patience for sure. And yet they were still kind, still kept him around. Oh the pity! They pitied the wretched creature he was, ignored their own discomfort to take care of him, to try and coax something good out of him. And how did he repay them? Didn’t know when to leave, didn’t know when to keep his distance. Of course they wanted space. After all they had been through, of course they needed time to reconnect. And every night he came back. Every morning they had to wake to him still there… He should have woken earlier.

His angry strides carried him out of the village and down the rough dirt road. This place wasn’t on the main thoroughfare to La Rochelle and that showed in the condition of the road. No army could or would march here. No wonder their hostess was so excited to have musketeers staying with her. That night they would probably have the entire parlour full of curious townsfolk, asking questions, wanting to hear tales of great valour when all he had to offer were burials.

What had he done? He’d dug graves. He’d forced other to dig them with him. He’d carried corpses. He’d tried to take the worst ones himself, the small children or the ones who had died earlier, so nature had already taken its course on them. He’d tried to shield others as much as possible, especially Porthos and Aramis. Captain Tréville had helped, of course. He’d kept Aramis occupied, had given him Athos’ position as his scribe and right-hand-man. That position was Aramis’ by both skill and seniority. Athos should never have interfered. Aramis had been there first. He had more experience than Athos would ever accumulate and was by far the better soldier. Captain Tréville trusted him. He only trusted Athos to bury the dead.

Porthos had been there too often, and Athos had tried in vain to keep him digging graves rather than carrying bodies, which made him cry every time. Athos should have prevented that. How could he even try to call himself a friend if that was what he did? No wonder that Porthos needed Aramis for comfort now. And he’d ruined that as well. He couldn’t even give them one moment of peace and happiness.

He wanted to leave. Wanted to keep walking for all eternity. Away from the site of his shame. Of course he was walking back towards the west, the coast and La Rochelle. Maybe he’d be useful there. Or else he could keep walking into the sea…

He shook his head. It was no good. They’d chase him down soon enough. On horseback, they would catch up with him in no time at all, but if he went back to get his horse, they’d corner him there. They’d catch him either way. They could and they would. He knew that. They were insistent in their care. He had to tell them, had to make it clear that he didn’t want their love. He wasn’t worthy of it. He had to leave, for their sake more than his own.

They had orders, though. Six days. Stay until Monday, then ride to Chenonceau. Meet the royal party there. He’d have to ask Captain Tréville for his release then. He was a soldier now, albeit a useless one. He couldn’t just leave as he pleased. He’d make himself a deserter as well as a coward.

He turned around but didn’t take the direct road back. He wandered through fields, muddy with the recent rain. Dirt crusted his boots and yet it was better dirt than what covered the rest of him. All that had died here was the occasional field mouse or hare. He wasn’t treading on human bones and flesh with every step. He took a deep breath. The siege was over. La Rochelle lay behind. Now he understood Aramis’ reluctance to ever return to that place. He’d been there before, had been injured and left with an unsatisfactory conclusion to a campaign. That city was cursed.

Or maybe Athos was.

He stopped when he reached the river. It was fairly wide but didn’t look deep despite the rain. Not even big enough to have… an accident, not unless he was drunk out of his mind. He pushed the thought from his mind.

Duty.

He didn’t have much, but he had that. He’d ask for a separate room, pay for it himself, and keep the door locked until Monday. He’d give them their time together to rest and reconnect. He wouldn’t be in their way any longer. They would only have to tolerate him for one day of riding and then he would ask Captain Tréville for his release and they could forget about this.

He stared into the water. Always moving, never stopping. Time to move on now. Time to stop telling himself he’d found a place. Keep moving, keep changing, keep reinventing himself. But what was the point? At the core, he’d never changed. He was still the same person he had always been. The same coward. The same derisible excuse for a man.

Three years after joining the regiment, he still hated himself. All he’d done was find new reasons for it. Three years and no change except to make it worse, to make others hate him as well.

Aramis’ voice calling his name that morning… to tell him how much they hated him, to deride him for who he was, to tell him he couldn’t hide any longer. Their pity had reached its limit now. They needed each other and nobody needed him.

Athos, why are you here?

Athos, get lost.

Athos, stop staring.

Athos, you stink.

This was no use. He needed to go back there. He would not go back on his word. He had orders to follow. It was the very least he could do for all the kindness Captain Tréville had shown him. He could do that. He had to.

He entered the town again through the gate by the squat little church. It was an ugly building, looking closed in and defensive. The church he knew was more aggressive than that. More Richelieu’s style, decisive to the point of brutality. A church he had served. His limited skills had proven useful for that at least. Not much, but something.

The villagers were staring at him. He felt like a big heavenly finger was pointing down on him. Pointing out the sinner he was. The failed comte, the failed musketeer. They could all see his shame. Smell the decay on his body. Shame and death and misery.

He bit down on his cheek as he crossed the square in front of the inn, using the sharp pain and the taste of blood to ground himself. He could do this, could briefly pretend to be a functioning human being. One who didn’t dread the living more than the dead. The prospect of entering the building, of confronting them and making his apologies scared him. Of course it did. Everything scared him, coward that he was.

“You’re back!”

Porthos pulled him into a fierce embrace before Athos could move to avoid him. Every muscle in his body tensed, primed for flight. Run, run, run again, it was all he was good for.

He forced that feeling down, squeezed it into some hidden corner of his mind to make it manageable. He couldn’t run again. He’d done that already.

“We were so worried,” Porthos murmured in his ear.

Of course they were. On top of everything else, he’d made them worry. Fabulous. Well done, Athos. He was supposed to be protecting them and instead… How he’d ever thought he could be anyone’s friend was a riddle to him now.

“I’m fine,” he said even as some voice inside his head laughed. There was nothing actually wrong with him, of course, but fine? He had not been fine in weeks, if ever.

He jumped when hands appeared at his neck. A shiver crawled down his back like a spider.

Aramis took a step back, looking guilty. “I wanted to take your doublet.”

Athos bit down on his lip. “Of course.”

He shrugged out of the offending item. Not that he wanted to leave himself any more naked than he already felt under their appraising glares, but the simple gesture made them step back and give him space. He tried to breathe. Fine. He was fine.

Aramis took the garment from him and Porthos pulled out a chair. Athos didn’t want to sit with them, but… It was easier, really. He could sit and say his piece and then he would leave them alone.

He tried to take a deep breath but felt like he was sucking in air through a particularly tight gag.

“We’re sorry about this morning.” The words tumbled out of Porthos’ mouth.

“We apologise,” Aramis added. “For the offence we caused.”

Offence? Offence they caused? Athos blinked at them and cleared his throat several times.

“I…” He paused, at a loss for words.

“We understand,” Aramis said. “It won’t happen again. We appreciate your tolerance so far. We won’t test it further.”

“We’re so happy you’re back.” Porthos looked at him with a tenderness he usually reserved for Aramis.

He could feel his mind turning, clunking along like a mill in low water. They thought he… oh…

“I was intruding,” he said.

“No,” they said at once.

“You didn’t… I shouldn’t have been there. You want your space. I’ll get a second room, I—”

Porthos’ face fell.

“We always want you there,” Aramis said, reaching out across the table. Athos’ quickly moved his hands into his lap.

His eyes darted from one to the other. They looked sincere. Genuinely sad, but not… not angry or annoyed.

“Stay,” Porthos said. He smiled, but it was a timid thing.

“We want you here,” Aramis repeated.

“Always.” Porthos ran his fingers lightly across Athos’ upper arm. The sensation lingered, hot and sharp, like Porthos had pierced his skin with a blade.

“You missed each other.” Athos’ voice sounded foreign to him, a hoarse croak.

They looked at each other, then back at him. “We missed you, too,” Aramis said. “We all need to reconnect.”

Porthos ducked his head at that, as if it were a shameful admission. Shameful… or wrong. Something they said out of pity. Athos didn’t know what to say. This was all getting too much for him. He could manage twenty thousand dead bodies. He was dead enough inside for that. But he couldn’t speak about this, about all those emotions that swirled inside of him, a whirlpool threatening to drag him down, no matter how hard he swam.

“Anyways,” Aramis said. “Madame Petit has some lunch for you since you didn’t eat breakfast.”

Athos stomach sank like someone had deposited cannon balls in it. Visions of his untouched plate the night before returned to him. Like a little child.

Aramis got to his feet. “I thought you could eat on the road.”

“Where are we going?” Athos asked. “Did something happen?”

If he had missed it while he was aimlessly wandering the fields… the reason Captain Tréville had sent them and he hadn’t been there. It should have been him. He shouldn’t have let his guard down.

“Nothing at all,” Aramis said. “The last time anything happened here, Charlemagne was still alive.”

Porthos retrieved a small bundle wrapped in linen from the kitchen. He gave it to Athos who glanced inside. An egg, a crust of bread and a wrinkled apple. A few of the cannon balls in his stomach disappeared. That was manageable.

Porthos peered over his shoulder. “If you don’t want that—”

Aramis swatted him. “Let him eat. You had more than enough.”

“I’m a growing boy.”

“You’re the one paying for a new doublet if you can’t fasten it anymore. Not my problem.”

Not that there seemed to be any danger of that. Porthos’ clothes, while still tight at the arms and across his chest, hung loosely lower down. When had he lost weight? Athos hadn’t noticed.

Aramis tossed Porthos a pile of blankets. Athos narrowed his eyes. “Are we staying out? Should I bring—”

“Nothing but yourself.”

“What are we doing?”

“Taking the waters.” Porthos chuckled at the effeminate tone he put on to say that. His accent would never pass for that of a nobleman, but that didn’t keep him from trying.

Athos frowned.

“What do people come here for?” Aramis asked. “It’s the only thing to do around these parts.”

“But Captain Tréville…”

“… knew that very well when he ordered us to come here.”

Ordered. They had to follow orders after all. It was their duty.

He followed them outside. As they walked down the road, Aramis tipped his hat at every woman to cross their path, leaving the simple farmers and housewives tittering in their wake. Porthos carried the blankets and whistled a jaunty tune. Athos nibbled on his lunch. The bread was like sawdust in his mouth, but he took several bites of the hard-boiled egg and caught himself almost enjoying the sweetness of the apple.

They passed the outlying cottages and the smithy and kept on walking until they reached a simple wooden hut. An old man was stoking a fire a few feet away. Athos tensed when Aramis approached him. Some money changed hands and then the man picked up the largest fire tongues Athos had ever seen and retrieved a glowing red stone from the fire. Danger? Aramis seemed relaxed, but what if… Athos needed to…

Aramis turned back to them and gestured towards the hut. “In you go. The sort of water not even Porthos is afraid of.”

“Just because I don’t go jumping in like some fish, doesn’t mean I’m afraid.”

With a loud hiss, the hot stone dropped into a small trough of water along the wall of the hut. There were five of these troughs, though only three were currently filled. Cautiously, Athos stepped inside ahead of his friends, quickly surveying the small room. There were five corresponding wooden tubs, each the size of a coffin. While Aramis busied himself with some bushels of plants that hung from nails on the far side of the hut, Porthos knelt down and inspected the tubs.

“That’s smart,” he said. “There’s a board at the end so your feet don’t get burned, but the water can go over it.” He dipped his hand into the first tub and sighed contentedly.

Against his dark skin, Athos noticed how milky the water was. “Is it supposed to be that colour?” he asked. If there was any chance he could get out of this, a poisoning would come in handy.

Aramis nodded, coming over with some dried twigs in his hands. “It’s what makes it special. Contains all sorts of healing powers. In the summer, people from all over France come here to seek relief from their ailments.” He shrugged. “Apparently not that popular in November.”

Porthos gave a non-committal grunt and bent down to remove his shoes. “Can’t see why not. Warming right up in here.”

Aramis dropped a few of the twigs into each tub and the rising steam took on a sweet fragrance. “Meadowsweet and lavender,” he declared. “That’ll be good for you.”

They both turned around as they undressed, giving Athos a modicum of privacy. He would never be able to understand how easily they stripped and how unselfconscious they were in their nakedness. They were both beautiful men, of course, which had to help. He removed his boots and socks but hesitated to go further. Meanwhile, both of them were naked, bickering among themselves about whether or not it was necessary to fold clothes as one took them off. Athos sighed, staring at the hem of his shirt.

“May I accompany you to your bath?” Aramis offered Porthos his arm as if he were a lady he was wooing.

Porthos chuckled but went along with it. “If you insist, Monsieur.”

As he helped Porthos into the tub, Aramis’ hands lingered on his back where a particularly vicious scar marred the smooth skin. “This will be good for you,” he said softly. “People come here mainly for skin complaints.”

Athos became aware that he was staring and turned away from them to fold his own clothes, siding with Porthos in that particular argument. Behind him, Porthos groaned with relief as water sloshed onto the wooden floor.

“Would you like a hand getting in?” Aramis asked. Athos shook his head and a moment later he heard a mirroring splash and moan from Aramis. Peering over his shoulder, Athos saw both of them reclining in their respective tubs, eyes squeezed shut as they rested their heads on the ledge. He hurried to follow suit.

To his relief, the water was so opaque it obscured anyone’s view. In addition, the steam inside the small room became thicker and thicker, the air fragrant with Aramis’ herbs. Athos sank deeper and deeper into the tub until just his head remained above water. It was hot, but not painfully so. He breathed in deeply through his nose and out through his mouth, feeling the small droplets coat his insides like rain on a window. For the first time in weeks he didn’t smell the stench of death.

Athos drifted in the warm water. His body was weightless, floating on clouds of milky liquid. The steam filled his brain until there was no space for thoughts anymore. Bit by bit his muscles uncurled, losing their tension. His tightly clenched fists turned into gently floating creatures with a will of their own. He soon felt as soft as the large jellyfish they had often found washed up on the beaches around La Rochelle. Other than that, the siege seemed very far away, like the water was rinsing the memories from his brain, as well as the dirt from his body.

He could not have said how long he was floating, blissfully unaware of his surroundings until a groan startled him from his reverie. Aramis had gotten out of his tub and was kneeling behind Porthos’, wrapped in one of the soft blankets Madame Petit had given them. Porthos had slid down even further into the water, his knees now sticking out on either side, to submerge the back of his head. Aramis was kneading his scalp, squeezing the floating locks of hair.

Athos averted his eyes, unwilling to intrude on yet another private moment.

“I can do yours next,” Aramis offered. “Easier than doing it by yourself.”

Athos made no reply.

“Let him,” Porthos said between groans. “He’s been desperate to touch you for weeks.”

“Porthos!” Aramis yanked on a fistful of hair. “Leave me some of my secrets.”

Porthos chuckled and lazily motioned for him to continue. “I recommend it.”

“May I?” Aramis asked a few minutes later. For all their teasing, he seemed genuinely insecure. Really asking for permission instead of barging in first and thinking later.

If he’d been desperate, it would be ungrateful to deny him. Athos nodded. Aramis sighed in relief. The next moment, Athos felt his hands dip into the water next to his ears. Aramis gently ran his fingers through his hair, long and wild and in need of a barber. Then he cradled Athos’ skull like it was a precious gem and started to rub small circles on his scalp. It felt odd at first, but as he grew used to the sensation, he found himself relaxing again, settling into the slow rhythm of pressure and release. He wasn’t sure what the point of this was, if Aramis thought he could exorcise his demons through this massage, but he stopped questioning it and started to float again, Aramis’ fingers the only connection he had to the real world.

“Thank you,” Aramis whispered, stroking from Athos’ forehead along his hairline, all the way to the nape of his head as if he truly knew how delicate Athos was. He should feel shame, but Athos couldn’t quite muster the energy for it.

“Thank you,” he croaked, his voice rusty like an un-oiled hinge.

“He looks after us so well,” Porthos said.

Athos opened his eyes in time to see Aramis preen. He always did respond well to praise.

“As do you,” Aramis said. He rested one warm head on Athos’ forehead. “Both of you.”

Athos’ floating thoughts came to an abrupt halt. Porthos, yes. He always did take care of them. But he himself?

“Yes, you do,” Porthos said. “Don’t you say you don’t.”

And yes, Athos had forgotten that Porthos could sometimes read minds.

“But I…” he truly could not think of anything, any example to give. It was them who took care of him.

“You spared us a lot,” Aramis said. “It could have been any one of us, organising that. It should have been all of us. But you did it all on your own. You never made me go back to that tower.”

Athos bit his lip. “You still saw it.”

Aramis hummed thoughtfully, fingers tracing random patterns in the water. “And I’m glad I did. Secrets only make the horror grow. But I couldn’t… I couldn’t have done what you did. Not as well and not for as long. And I certainly wouldn’t have come out of it with my mind still all in one piece.”

“And yes, yours is,” Porthos interjected.

“You’ve done us a huge favour,” Aramis said. “You took great care of us these past few weeks. Let us give back now.”

Athos’ mind was entirely too soft and floaty to make actual sense of their words, but from what he gathered they weren’t sending him away. They still, for whatever reason, wanted him close, wanted him with them, whatever that might mean in the future.

They scrubbed their bodies thoroughly until even Porthos’ skin glowed red. At one point Porthos, clad only in a blanket wrapped around his waist in a very risqué way, dashed out of the hut to get some cold water from the nearby spring. It was just as cloudy cold as it was hot, but had no particular taste to it. Aramis assured them is was healthy from the outside as well as the inside. They gulped it down.

The heat in the hut was stifling, but it never felt oppressive to Athos. On the contrary, it was comforting. He wasn’t ready to leave when they finally climbed out of the cooling water, the skin on their fingers resembling the bark of trees.


	3. Chapter 3

They walked slowly back into town. Athos felt like he wasn’t even moving but being pulled along by some invisible force. He was very aware of his arms swinging by his sides, his limbs loose and seemingly out of his conscious control. He was vaguely aware that this wasn’t a good state to be in. He doubted he could have lifted a sword or aimed a pistol. But his brain was still too foggy for him to really care. It felt rather like being slightly drunk, the warm glow and relaxation.

Their beds were freshly made and their room clean and tidy.

Aramis heaved an exaggerated sigh. “I want to lie down, but then I’ll get it dirty.”

“Take your boots off then, you lazy git,” Porthos said, already bending down to do the same.

“I can’t.” Aramis pouted. “They are so far away and if I lean over, I’m going to tip and crumple to the floor.”

Porthos chuckled and Athos felt a traitorous smile tug at his lips.

“You’re a spoiled child.” Porthos scooted over to Aramis on his knees and tapped his left foot so he would lift it. “Wouldn’t think you’re actually pretty capable at what you do.”

“I’m very capable.” Aramis braced himself on Porthos’ shoulders as his boot was tugged off. “But only when I have to be.”

Their bickering felt so normal, like the past year had never happened, like they were only away from Paris and the garrison and their ordinary lives for a few short days, like they were still untouched by the horrors of war.

Athos paused as he unbuckled his belt. Had they ever been? He himself, yes, he’d had a different life before riding into this war. But these two? He’d never known their _before_. They had already been veterans when they met. And yet they hadn’t lost their capacity for love and levity. There was hope for them. They could come back from this, could indeed go back to their ordinary life.

While Athos perched awkwardly on the edge of his bed, Aramis stretched on his like a cat, revelling in the softness of the fresh straw. Athos wondered if he’d ever had better. He must have, with his steady stream of high-born mistresses. But Aramis never complained. Not in a serious way, at least. For him it was always a laughing matter, even when they did end up in lice-infested quarters. But he sure knew how to enjoy the slightest bit of luxury.

“I vote for naps,” Aramis said and yawned so wide they could hear his jaw crack.

Athos bristled at the indulgence. It was barely mid-afternoon. They shouldn’t be in bed at all, much less sleep. Porthos seemed to think the same. He wagged his finger at Aramis.

“And then you’ll be up before dawn tomorrow when decent people want to sleep.”

“Like you notice! Nothing ever wakes you up.”

“You staring at me does.”

“Fine, I’ll look at Athos then.” Aramis stuck out his tongue. “What else shall we do? I’m too well-boiled to do much.”

Athos agreed with that sentiment, but Porthos seemed to have no such concerns. He went downstairs to fetch a pitcher of wine, so diluted it was really more flavoured water than anything else, but still pleasant on the tongue.

Athos eventually leaned back against the wall and stretched out his legs. He felt clean for the first time in months. Even the stench had gone, leaving only a slight aroma of soap and lavender behind.

Porthos sat on the floor, unpacking his bags, inspecting each item, and cleaning what needed cleaning. He finished with his weapons and the smell of gun oil wafted through the room. It was odd how that could be comforting despite being both a precursor and after-effect of violence. But somehow, over the past three years, Athos had learned to associate it with the down-times in between, quiet nights around a campfire or lazy afternoon in the courtyard of the garrison.

Aramis, as ever, could not keep still for long. He thumbed through his bible for a few minutes but didn’t seem to find anything that caught his attention. He grabbed his rosary, but only dangled it from his fingers, playing with the crucifix rather than praying. Eventually, he turned around in his bed and pointed to a small bottle that Porthos had not yet placed back into his bags.

“Anything in there?”

Porthos looked up from his pistol and grunted in the affirmative. Aramis stretched out his arm and nearly tipped off the bed in his effort to reach the bottle before Porthos relented and handed it to him. Aramis patted the mattress.

“Come here, I’ll do your hair.”

Porthos eyed him sceptically. “No braiding. I’m not some fancy lady’s horse.”

“More’s the pity.” Aramis batted his eye lashes at him. “No braiding, you have my word as a gentleman.”

“Right gentleman you are.” Porthos snorted but put aside his pistol and the greasy cloth he’d used to polish it. He sat on the edge of the bed, facing Athos, with Aramis kneeling up behind him. His curls were drying in a messy heap.

Aramis ran his fingers through them. It always amazed Athos just how long Porthos’ hair was when pulled straight. It was longer now than he had ever seen it. Porthos rolled his eyes. Aramis made soft purring sounds as he worked the hair oil into the mass of black curls, separating strands and pushing and pulling them into something resembling Porthos’ usual look. Porthos’ eyes fell closed. This oil smelled different, sweeter, and Athos’ associations with it were different as well. It reminded him of training, honing his hand-to-hand combat skills; of standing close, on parade or in some hiding place; of coming home late at night. It smelled of Porthos.

Athos didn’t fall asleep, but as he lay back on his bed, he still had that same floating feeling he’d had in the bath. Darkness fell early and they kept the lights low. Time passed in random bursts and slogs. Suddenly, the door closed and Athos sat up, rubbing his eyes.

“Where’s Porthos going?”

“Getting some food.” Aramis was leaning against the wall as well, his long legs crossed elegantly.

“Ah…” Athos’ floatiness was rudely interrupted by the return of the weight in his stomach. His insides seemed to fill up with shovel after shovel of heavy, sodden earth, like a grave.

“All right?”

Athos tried to force his lips into a smirk, but it wouldn’t come. “Not hungry.”

“You haven’t been for a long while. Drove Serge nuts, you know.”

Athos shrugged. “I don’t feel like it.”

Aramis leaned his head to one side. “Anything in particular that’s bothering you?”

“What do you think?” The venom in his voice came easier than the smirk. “I didn’t pick a favourite corpse if that’s what you’re after.”

“So… the general situation.”

The general situation. The situation where he got to pamper himself with hot baths and spiced wine and thousands of others had starved to death. Where so many who deserved life had died and he, of all people, was left.

“It’s hard.” A tired, wry smile was on Aramis’ lips. “I know a thing or twenty about that. But you’re not helping anyone by not eating. Hurting yourself won’t change what has happened. Believe me, I’ve tried.”

Of course he had. Because he was a proper soldier. Because he was still an elite musketeer after all he had endured. Aramis had a real claim to pain. Athos was nothing but a stuck-up prick. The men joked about that sometimes, noblemen buying their commission, being given a military rank as a present… Nobody had made such jokes to his face. They should have. They were right.

“I’m a joke,” he said.

“That’s not what I was saying.” Aramis smiled at him. “Nothing could be further from the truth. You have no experience of this. You’ve never seen anything like it.”

“Exactly.”

“That’s not a bad thing.”

A soft thump at the door spared Athos from having to answer. Porthos backed into the room balancing two trays, three cups clinking together where they hung off his fingers.

“Give us a hand,” he grunted.

Aramis jumped up, snatching his bible from the nightstand and the precariously swinging cups from Porthos’ hands. Athos finally sprang into action, rescuing a tray on which an inordinate amount of food had started to slide slowly but surely off its plate. Athos’ stomach clenched at the smell of cheese and roasted meat.

“Oh there you are, my dears.” Madame Petit had evidently been following Porthos with a pitcher and a bottle of wine.

“I tried,” Porthos whispered out of the corner of his mouth. “But she…” He shrugged helplessly.

Aramis and the woman bustled around them, rearranging things until they could finally set down the trays. The landlady put her hands on her hips and surveyed the scene, shaking her head.

“You really are much too thin, messieurs. They ought to feed you properly with the army and all.”

She squeezed Aramis’ shoulder and Athos quickly took a step back to avoid a similar fate. “Don’t you fret,” she continued. “We’ll feed you right up. How did you like the baths?”

“Heavenly,” Aramis said with a bright smile. Porthos beamed back at him.

“They were very beneficial,” Athos said. She looked at him, then, and he took another step back, as far as the small room would allow.

“They can sometimes take you strangely,” she said. “If you’re not used to it. You’ll sleep well tonight though, I say. Your friend here, he said you were tired and won’t be coming down tonight.”

“Apologies, madame,” Athos said. He wasn’t really apologising. He felt more like thanking Porthos for his kindness. One of these nights, he knew they would have to face the townsfolk, would have to answer their questions and live through their looks. He would take any excuse to delay that torture.

“Just ask if you need anything,” she said, giving Aramis’ shoulder another squeeze.

“We’re quite content for the moment,” Aramis said. Then Porthos coughed. He tried to hide it, tried to mask it as nothing more than a clearing of the throat, but they had all heard. “Some thyme tea, if you have any,” Aramis said. “It should ease his lungs.”

She did, of course, and it eased more than the lungs for Porthos who clutched the warm mug with a serene smile on his face. He chuckled when he took the first sip.

“She put honey in it.” He took another sip. “It’s sweet as anything.”

He looked pleased. As he should. Honey for Porthos. Athos wished he could buy him vats of it, sweeten everything as much as possible. Make him fill out again, make him happy.

For lack of furniture, they perched on Aramis’ bed to eat, even though Porthos fretted about the crumbs getting everywhere. Athos was certain he wouldn’t contribute much to that particular problem.

It was harder to push this food around on the plate though as Porthos had procured a veritable mountain of very small pieces of bread. Little squares of a heavy dark rye bread and rounds of a thin baguette, luxuriously light and soft, all of them laden with cheese and meats and egg. An easy, simple meal that required little effort on their part, but Athos dreaded to think of the amount of work that had gone into preparing it. Their host had enough trouble with them as it was.

“Can you take up any more space?” Aramis nudged Porthos over. “You are a guest in _my_ bed, you know.”

Porthos patted his stomach. “Nah, only going to take up more space.” He bit into a piece of bread with gusto.

Aramis elbowed him in the side.

“Watch it!” Porthos cried as he scrambled to keep a hold of the pieces of chicken on his bread. “You’ll be the one getting angry if anything goes wrong with those ribs again.”

Aramis waved him off airily. “What you do with your bones is none of my concern as long as you keep bringing me food and let me eat in peace.”

He leaned back against the wall, balancing his plate on his outstretched legs, and motioned for Porthos to put another piece of bread onto his plate. Athos watched them, sitting cross-legged at the foot of the bed. They settled back into their normal life so easily. Only his mind still lingered on La Rochelle. He bit thoughtfully into something pickled, watching their easy banter. He wished he had that same ability.

“You alright down there?” Porthos asked, handing out the next round of bread. “Don’t want our stinky feet putting you off.”

“Oi, speak for yourself!” Aramis snatched a piece of ham straight from Porthos’ plate. “I had the longest, warmest bath of all times _and_ I put on fresh socks. If I smell of anything, it’s of daisies.”

“I thought it was lavender.”

“Of flowers. Beautiful, dainty flowers. Not that you’d understand such things.”

Something in Athos unfurled ever so slightly, remembering the fragrant steam in the bathhouse, the smell of flowers, but not those flowers that he dreaded. Meadowsweet and lavender. He could recall the smell clearly without interference from the recent or more distant past.

He made a show of lifting a piece of cheese up and sniffing it. “Must be this then, this distinct mouldy aroma.”

For a second, they stared at him. For that same second, Athos felt proud of the joke he had made, for catching them out like this, for contributing to the general merriment for once. When they started to laugh, Porthos’ great rumbling laughter and Aramis’ higher chuckles, he felt ashamed. Who was he to laugh so easily, to forget so quickly? He had no right. He shouldn’t. And of course he wasn’t even laughing himself, but he had known that they would. He had knowingly made them laugh. And he shouldn’t have. A few days riding and a hot bath, was that all it took? Was his memory so short-lived, was he so careless as to forget everything within a week? Hundreds of families, thousands of people, never laughing again and there he was with all his luxury and privilege, not just leaving behind the place of their despair, but laughing it all off as soon as he could.

“Have you tried the ham?” A piece of bread appeared right under his nose. “It’s delicious.”

And it was easier to take it than to refuse. He reached out mechanically and chewed it without tasting anything. A waste. Despicable. When so many would never taste anything again. When so many had not eaten at all in the weeks leading up to their deaths. And here he was, joking, and eating, and living in luxury.

He heard their voices and tried to reel in his thoughts, but it was a struggle. He felt as distant from everyone else as he had out there digging pits for all those burials. All those bodies. All those people they had killed, not directly, not quickly with a blade or a bullet, but slowly and painfully. That great big noose of the executioner tightening around the doomed city. He’d watched the noose before, of course. But that time he hadn’t stayed for the aftermath. That time he hadn’t seen… Her pale face in the dirt, her slim body disappearing beneath—

He was yanked back to the present by a hand on his knee.

“Stretch out your legs. Get comfortable.”

He would never be comfortable. Should never be. He didn’t deserve… more food. It tasted of ash. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust… And why hadn’t he been returned by now? Did even the devil not want him? Old wives’ tales of men that were cursed to walk the earth for all eternity. Murderers of their brothers, their wives, of whole cities…

Hands on his feet this time, kneading his arches. He looked up and they smiled back. Porthos now had his arm around Aramis and Aramis glanced at Athos through his lashes while putting his hands to work. Athos felt the tension bleed from his feet against his will. He should be tense, he should be struggling, he didn’t—

“I’m so glad you’re here.” Aramis gave his legs an affectionate rub. “I’ve missed you.”

“We’ve both missed you,” Porthos said in that rough, low voice that always meant he was getting emotional.

“I didn’t go anywhere,” Athos said.

“You worked such long days we hardly saw you.” Porthos gave Aramis a squeeze that Athos knew was for him.

“And when you were around, you kept hiding yourself away in your head,” Aramis added.

Athos wanted to protest, but what could he say when he knew it was true?

“And so did I.” Aramis’ hands stopped their movement on Athos’ feet. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. “I couldn’t… there was so much going on and I didn’t have the words to talk about it.”

Athos nodded like the movement was out of his control, like some invisible puppet master had plucked a string. There was so much and yet so little to say.

“You don’t need to talk about anything,” Porthos said. “We all know what… what happened. I’ll listen if you want me to, but if it does nothing but reopen wounds then don’t. We want them to scab over, not keep bleeding.”

“They’ll be a long time healing,” Aramis said.

Porthos shrugged. “I’m not going anywhere. Unless you are. Then I’ll come along.”

That was such a Porthos thing to say, it robbed Athos’ breath with the normalcy of it all. Porthos could make these big statements out of nowhere. Swearing his ever-lasting allegiance to Aramis in between bites of cheese.

Aramis dug his thumbs into Athos’ feet. “He means you as well.”

Oh. Him.

“Goes without saying,” Porthos said. “We’re inseparable, aren’t we?”

Aramis sighed. “Yes, God willing.”

Athos’ throat went dry as they looked at him expectantly. “Yes,” he croaked. “If you’ll have me.”

“Athos!” they both admonished.

He ducked his head and brushed away their reassurances that he was important, that he mattered, that they were not the same without him, but slowly each of these statements melted a layer of ice around his soul. He felt lighter and lighter until the feeling was almost the same as when he had been floating in the bath earlier.

“You make us complete,” Aramis said. “We don’t want to imagine what it would be like to lose you, to be left alone without you…”

Porthos shuddered and hugged Aramis tighter. “Don’t say that. We don’t have to imagine what it’d be like without you. We watched you drown and then you went and disappeared and we thought…”

“We nearly lost you twice as well,” Aramis said. “And Athos had to watch it all and make sure he pieced us back together again at the end.”

“I didn’t do that,” Athos said.

“You did.” Porthos’ tone brokered no argument. “Don’t think we didn’t know you were protecting us. And when you weren’t doing it for us, you were doing it for Tréville or for all the rest of the regiment. Someone had to do what you did. You stepped up and did it.”

“This would have been much worse without you,” Aramis said.

Athos shook his head. “It could have been much better if I…”

“It could have been much worse,” Aramis repeated. “Believe me, I’ve been at sieges where…” He grimaced. “I definitely don’t want to pick at those scabs.”

Porthos held him tighter and Athos attempted to look reassuring.

“You don’t have to,” Athos said. Because he certainly wouldn’t do that. He wouldn’t talk about some things, not even to them.

Porthos hummed thoughtfully.

“You disagree?” Aramis asked.

“Well… You know what we say about injuries… that you can’t hide them. That’s not just for injuries to your body. If something’s in the past and gone, then fine, don’t talk about it. But if it’s hurting you now and it’s making you slower or less likely to do some things, then you’ve got to talk.” Porthos ducked his head and blushed. “Sorry, I’m rambling.”

“No,” Aramis said. “You’re right. Right, Athos?”

Athos thought about it, thought about the loopholes that agreement left him with. “So we do not have to talk about the past unless it directly impacts the present,” he said eventually. “That seems acceptable.”

Not unless it directly impacted the present. Directly. And his past wouldn’t, of course. They’d find themselves in fights that reminded Aramis of Savoy, yes. But they wouldn’t find themselves in the sort of situations that had given birth to Athos’ demons. He would never take a wife again whose sins it would be his duty to punish. He would do his duty, but it wouldn’t…

Entirely unbidden, images of dead Protestants returned to his mind. Decaying corpses in a pit. Seeing Porthos in every child. Seeing Aramis as he might have been had they not released him.

“If something hurts right now and influences what you do, we have to talk about it,” Aramis said. “For safety reasons.”

They all nodded, but Athos knew he could never let that pain influence him enough to force him to give voice to those images. Speaking of them would make them even more real and that damn siege was still too real in all of their minds.

“I’ve got something,” Porthos said. “Something I’ve been thinking about.”

Aramis, who was now leaning against Porthos’ chest, looked up at him. “What is it?”

“Montpellier,” Porthos said. “The siege in ’22. My first siege right after I joined the infantry.”

“Ah…” Aramis moved his hand from Athos’ foot to Porthos knee and gave it a reassuring squeeze. As a soldier who had seen the entirety of this war, he probably remembered it all too well.

Athos shifted on the bed to sit cross-legged once more. His memories were different. Montpellier. A royal victory or a stalemate, depending on who told the tale. At any rate, heavy losses on both sides. That had seemed such a small detail at the time, but his perception had shifted now that his friends could be among the losses of any royal battle.

“It wasn’t like La Rochelle,” Porthos said. “They fought back at Montpellier. They made sorties and beat us back more than once. And they had better weapons than us. We didn’t have any pistols or anything, not in the infantry. All I had was that big old sabre. Not much use when they’re shooting you from a distance.”

“It must have been terrible,” Athos said. Blades against bullets, the mismatch was clear.

“I didn’t see much of it,” Aramis said. “Cavalry, you know. In and out very quickly.” He worried his lip between his teeth. “And we did have firearms.”

“No way I was going near a horse back then.” Porthos smiled, but it was a crooked, half-formed thing. “Bad enough when you lot thundered past and covered us in dust from head to toe.”

“Aren’t you glad you’ve seen the light since then?” Aramis’ joke wasn’t delivered in his usual tone. They all knew this was no laughing matter.

“Some good men in that regiment, though,” Porthos said. “This lad I knew, Martin. Little scrap of a boy and sly as a rat. He’d always find us something to eat even when everyone else went hungry. He turned 17 that summer and I’ll never know how but he found us a bottle of wine to celebrate.”

How many bottles had Athos emptied that summer? How many more had lain untouched in the cellar? How much food had gone to waste? Everything Porthos had lacked, he’d had in abundance.

“What happened to him?” Aramis asked. Which probably meant there hadn’t been any little scrap of a boy with Porthos at that bridge two years later.

“A cannon ball.”

Athos felt momentarily deaf and dumb as if a shot had been fired in their room. He’d known of this boy’s existence for only a few moments but hearing of his demise still touched him.

“We went and captured that bastion, the one that looked over the city,” Porthos said.

“Saint-Denis,” Aramis supplied. “They got it back the next day.”

“And they got Martin with it.” Porthos wiped his nose with the back of his hand. “His legs… He was screaming for his mum. I picked him up and carried him out. And then… At least it didn’t last long.”

17 years. Killed for some rampart they couldn’t hold.

“May God rest his soul,” Aramis said. “I’m so sorry.”

“That night when you didn’t come back from that mill…” Porthos looked down at Aramis. “I thought that… Because they were shooting that night. And you could have… you would have been all alone.”

“But I—” Aramis stopped and heaved a big sigh. “I understand, though. I always wonder about those things.”

“Eat.” Porthos picked up the last few pieces of bread and handed them out. “Please,” he said when neither one of them seemed to think the retelling of a gruesome death a great appetiser. “I need to know you’re eating.”

It wasn’t just Porthos’ childhood speaking, was it? “The supplies at Montpellier…” Athos said, leaving the thought hanging. He’d never heard anything about them, but given his experience with La Rochelle, he doubted that supplying a large siege army for any length of time had been any easier back in ’22.

Porthos shook his head. “With Martin gone I couldn’t… I tried but I was never that good. So we weren’t eating anymore.”

“We?” Aramis asked.

“Claude,” Porthos said. “Claude Lefol, blacksmith. We enlisted on the same day. Good man. Big as an ox and strong as one, too. He’d beat me at wrestling but he got the brains, too.”

“He sounds wonderful.”

Porthos smiled. He finished his food before continuing. “He was. He saw I couldn’t sign my name when I signed up. Then on the road, every night, he’d sit with me and teach me with a stick in the dirt or with ashes or anything we could find.”

“You signed the papers when you joined the musketeers,” Athos said. They stared at him. He shrugged. “Regimental records. I had to sort them for Captain Tréville.”

Which was only half the truth. While Captain Tréville lacked any enthusiasm for paperwork, his files were meticulous where his men were concerned. Athos had no reason to look at those pages other than his own curiosity.

“He must have been an excellent teacher,” Aramis said.

“He was.” Porthos’ smile turned wistful. “He looked out for me when the others… not everyone was fond of me.”

Some of them were more interested in the colour of a man’s skin and his position than in his qualities and abilities. Athos had seen the looks ordinary soldiers shared when Porthos was around and that was with all the prestige and status the musketeers afforded him. He could only imagine what it would have been like in the infantry.

“He did good work,” he said to turn their attention back to more palatable things. “You were already reading and writing well when I met you.”

“Wasn’t that good until you practiced with me,” Porthos said. “Claude told me to keep it up, but it’s hard when nobody does it with you and I didn’t know anyone who’d let me borrow a book until I met you lot.”

His smile was at odds with his gruff words. Athos still remembered their early reading sessions. Saccharine poetry that held no interest for either of them. He later learned that it belonged to Aramis and had probably graced the library of one of his mistresses before. 

Aramis did not seem inclined to ask about Claude’s whereabouts and neither was Athos. It appeared unlikely that the man was enjoying life as a village blacksmith with a beautiful wife and a gaggle of children.

“Didn’t do him any good in the end,” Porthos said, confirming Athos’ dark suspicions. “All that strength and… it doesn’t matter, does it? The fever killed him like everyone else. I tried to feed him and make him drink and I tried to keep him warm, but…”

But… the words he didn’t say chilled Athos to the bone. Memories of Porthos himself, feverish and cold, and the desperate struggle to make him eat and drink. They had been fortunate. Put up in a country house, a regimental cook at their beck and call, even the king’s personal physician, as useless as he had been, would have seemed an unattainable luxury to Porthos at Montpellier six years before. Maybe that explained how eager he had been for the bloodletting Aramis opposed so fervently. The long, long shadows of the past.

“It wasn’t your fault,” Aramis said. “You know that, right?”

Porthos squeezed him tighter. “As well as I know that you being captured wasn’t my fault. And that’s about as well as you know that my illness wasn’t your fault.”

Aramis huffed a little laugh. “Not at all, then.”

“We know it here.” Porthos pointed to his forehead. “But not in here.” He rested his hand over Aramis’ heart and kept it there like Aramis sometimes kept his fingers around their wrists when they were injured. Athos unfurled his legs and stretched them out between theirs. He didn’t have the constant reassurance of a heartbeat, but their warm presence on either side of him still served as a reminder that they had all made it through that siege alive.

“I’m sorry you lost Claude,” Aramis said. “He sounds like a true friend.”

Porthos hummed his approval but seemed lost in thought.

Aramis poured wine for all of them.

“To Claude and all the others we have lost,” Athos said, raising his cup

“To all of them,” Porthos echoed.

“To true friends.” Aramis smiled at them.

They sat and drank in silence for a few minutes. When Porthos set his empty cup aside, he shivered.

“The pits looked the same,” he said. “Too many dead and nothing you can do… I wrapped him in his blanket when I took him. But they wouldn’t even let him keep his sword. Just wanted me to chuck him in.”

Athos quickly drained the rest of his wine and eyed the bottle for more. Chuck them in. Another body and another one. More and more. Brothers and sisters, fathers and mothers, lovers and friends…

“Wouldn’t do it,” Porthos continued. “I had to at least… He was my friend, you know? But they told me I had to… I wouldn’t do it now, but back then... They made it an order. At least I got to shovel the dirt over him. Tuck him in, in a way. Him and everyone else.”

He blew his nose.

“Don’t you go dying on me.” He shook his head. “And if you really have to, then don’t do it during a siege. I’d… I wouldn’t do that to you. Poor Claude. He doesn’t even… I couldn’t even find that spot again. It was all pits there. Deep, long trenches full of…” He stopped himself and sighed. “You know.”

Athos should have kept him away. Shouldn’t have let him. Shouldn’t have become the latest person to order him to bury people in mass graves. Every person Porthos had carried was one too many, another sharp reminder of that loss long ago.

“No wonder that all came back up now.” Aramis shuddered. “I’ve seen some bad ones in my time, but we never stuck around very long.” He shrugged apologetically. _Cavalry._ “And I didn’t… I’m usually with them until they die, not after.”

“One’s as bad as the other,” Athos said. And both would have relived past trauma at La Rochelle. Much more so than he had, still so new to the military and all the horrors it held. Half the years Porthos had spent serving in the army and an even smaller fraction of Aramis’ time. He should have done better. Protected them more.

“It’s war.” Aramis’ arms snaked around Porthos’ waist. “It’s not beautiful or romantic. It’s… it’s death and pain.” He buried his face in Porthos’ shoulder as if that could help him hide for the cruelties of the world.

“It’s this as well.” Porthos pressed a kiss to his hair. “It’s friends and working together for a bigger goal.”

What bigger goal? All three of them had come to despise the slaughter of Protestants. Starving out a city for nothing but glory and the satisfaction of their enemies’ complete and utter humiliation… it wasn’t something they could support wholeheartedly. They hadn’t said it in as many words, but Athos only had to think back to that first reconnaissance ride through the defeated city to know that their hearts went out to the Protestants, those men, women, and children who’d suffered so much to finally yield this victory. Any happiness they’d felt was for the end of the slaughter, not their victory.

“Did you feel Montpellier was a victory?” he asked Porthos.

Porthos stared into the distance, taking his time before he answered. “It wasn’t. Not really. We never conquered the city and by the end of it we had Rohan with 4000 men in our backs. They told us we’d won, that they’d opened the gates to the king and Montpellier was his again.” He shrugged. “I don’t know. I never made it inside and all around me, everyone was dying. Not much of a victory if you ask me.”

“I wonder if it ever feels like a victory,” Athos mused.

“What do you think?” Porthos prodded Aramis’ shoulder. “Let us hear your wisdom, old soldier.”

Aramis peered at them with bleary eyes. He had leaned against Porthos’ shirt so hard that the seams were imprinted on his face as dark red lines. “I’d rather… I’m fine, I promise. It’s not bad and it’s not anything specific. It won’t affect me. But…” He seemed fearful of their reaction. “I’d rather listen to you talk.”

He looked so young in that moment, so small in Porthos’ arms and so unlike the hardened soldier, the ruthless sniper he was.

“We can do that,” Porthos said.

With a sigh, Aramis hid his face once more. Porthos gently stroked his back and looked meaningfully at Athos.

Athos was struck by the depth of feeling in Aramis’ words. It was easy to dismiss his pain. He was resilient and reliable, almost always joking and never without a smart remark or cutting jibe on his lips. Within a few days of nearly drowning, he had taken charge of Porthos’ wellbeing and despite being captured, he’d been the one Captain Tréville relied on for much of the work in the aftermath of the siege.

They talked about nothing and everything, the light topics a thin veneer for the underlying emotions. Some of their talk was trivial, discussing the wine grown in this region or the chances of the rain letting up long enough for a pleasant ride the next day. Maybe it was inappropriate given the overall gravity of the situation. But Athos was starting to think that this was what Captain Tréville had intended, that he wanted to give them space from the campaign both physically and mentally. At the very least, their inconsequential chatter reminded Athos of that one positive thing about war that Porthos had found. It reaffirmed that sense of friendship, almost establishing a strange normality, reminiscent of nights spent in the garrison courtyard or around a campfire.

Aramis didn’t talk and didn’t stir apart from letting himself be jostled whenever Porthos shifted. When they had finally emptied the bottle and the candles were burning low, Porthos made to get up.

“Stay,” Aramis whined.

“I’ve got to get rid of those dishes. You don’t want to sleep with your bed all cluttered up.” Porthos patted his back.

Aramis was having none of it. He clung tighter to Porthos.

Porthos brushed crumbs from the sheets. “See, I told you this wasn’t a good idea. You’ll have bits of bread poke you all night long.”

Aramis made no sound. Had his bed been strewn with iron nails, Athos suspected he would not have cared in the slightest. There were some things that mattered more.

Athos took pity on him and extracted himself from the tangle of legs and discarded plates. To his astonishment, all plates were empty. What had seemed an insurmountable pile of bread had disappeared over the course of the evening. Now that he thought about it, Athos noticed that he did feel pleasantly full for the first time in weeks. Quite without noticing, he’d apparently had a decent meal.

He brought their plates and cups downstairs to the kitchen. What a difference a few short years could make. In his previous life, he would never have touched dirty dishes or indeed entered the kitchen of a small inn in the countryside. He had lodged in far grander establishments and sent others to do his bidding. He did not mind doing such menial tasks now. On the contrary, it gave him a strange rush of warmth to find Madame Pettit still up and smiling at him as she pressured him into taking up another mug of sweet tea to ease Porthos’ cough.


	4. Chapter 4

When Athos came back upstairs, he found Porthos in Aramis’ bed and Aramis in Porthos’.

“Breadcrumbs make him itchy.” Porthos’ eye roll could not hide his fond smile. “Not that I didn’t mention that before…”

Athos sat down on his own bed and looked down at Aramis’ face that only barely poked out of the blanket he had wrapped all around himself from head to toe.

“Cold?” he asked. The top of the blanket nodded vigorously.

Porthos frowned over his tea. “We haven’t been sitting on that one. It’ll warm right up. Or you could have my blanket?”

“No,” Athos and Aramis said in unison.

“You’re coughing enough as it is,” Athos added.

They said goodnight and extinguished the lights. In the darkness, Athos could hear Aramis shiver as he tried to warm up. Behind him, Porthos who usually fell asleep instantly, shifted uncomfortably on his bed.

“Aramis…”

“I’m sorry.” Aramis’ teeth chattered as he spoke. “It’s not even that cold.”

It didn’t have to be. The cold followed Aramis like the stench of death had clung to Athos. His friends had done their utmost to rid Athos of that affliction. Lying back in his own bed now, he smelled nothing but the soft straw beneath his body. He would not let Aramis suffer needlessly.

“Why don’t you get into the bed with him, Porthos?” Athos suggested.

“No, really, I’ll warm up in a bit,” Aramis said.

“You’d warm up quicker with Porthos there.” Warm up from within as well as outside.

“The beds are too small,” Porthos said, but he sat up nonetheless. They were of course. Much smaller than the bed they’d shared at La Rochelle.

“The three of us fit fine,” Athos said.

“But not for sleeping.”

The tension in Porthos’ body was visible even in the dim light. Aramis kept himself very still, except for the occasional tremor.

“You are warm, he is cold. It’s only rational,” Athos said.

“Are you sure?”

Sure that it would do them both good, that it would solve the problem, yes. Sure that it was the right thing to do? The notion of duty loomed large. Men shared beds all the time, but after this morning, after their reaction to what they thought was offence they caused, after the events of the evening… As a musketeer it was his duty to uphold the law, to know right from wrong. He had killed his own wife for duty. But who could say what was right and wrong anymore in a world where mass slaughter was sanctioned by god and the cardinal?

“Get on with it,” Athos said. “We all need our sleep.”

Aramis unwound his tight blanket wrap before Athos had even finished speaking. In the blink of an eye, Porthos jumped out of bed and slid under the blanket with Aramis. Athos had rarely felt more certain of one of his decisions than he did when he watched Aramis melt into Porthos’ embrace. Instantly, the shivering stopped and instead of chattering teeth, all he could hear were small contented noises from Aramis and Porthos shushing him, followed by the soft sound of a kiss that didn’t sound like the crime it was.

The next morning, Athos woke to the rain’s steady patter. Aramis was already awake, clinging to the edge of the bed so he could read his bible without disturbing Porthos who was still sound asleep. Both of them were on their sides, the bed much too small to accommodate two grown men unless they were uniquely determined to fit.

Aramis noticed Athos was no longer asleep and carefully marked his place in the book before setting it down on the floor.

“You must have questions.” His voice was soft, but the look he gave Athos was barely masked steel.

Athos blinked at him, confused. He had many questions, big questions about their future with the musketeers, about the cardinal, the war, and the role they'd play in it.

“About this.” Aramis turned his head to look at Porthos who had buried his face deep into the pillow they shared. His expression went soft for a second but hardened again as soon as he looked at Athos. Wary, almost defensive.

Oh… questions about... Athos shook his head. "No."

"I love him," Aramis said. "In every sense of the word."

In every... right. Athos should have been surprised, enraged... something. It was his duty.

"You love women," he said.

Aramis' gave him a wry smile. "Often and with impunity."

He shimmied back slightly, pressing his body tighter against Porthos' bare chest. "No woman could ever... there are things that I share with Porthos... experiences, an understanding... it's not better, I don't want to insult..." he dropped his head onto Porthos' arm and glanced up at Athos, looking almost shy. "It is better. Deeper. Longer. I burn so bright, so quickly. But then it's gone. With him... with him I stay warm."

“Oh.” Athos tried to think of something resembling eloquence. He was happy, he supposed, glad to see them support each other, to know that they’d had a good night, but…

“I get that this is rather…” Aramis trailed his fingers along the gnarled wood of the bed. “It’s all very new and overwhelming and… different.”

“Not really,” Athos repeated, sounding stupid, even to his own ears that were still ringing with echoes of duty. “You’ve been friends for as long as I’ve known you.”

Aramis grimaced, giving him a despairing look. Athos felt his cheeks burn. He wasn’t accustomed to discussing such things, much less before he’d even had a single sip of wine. Then again, no matter how much wine he’d had, Aramis’ candour and openness in affairs of the heart always took him aback.

“I’ve always known your penchant for extra- and pre-marital affairs,” he said. He recalled a few of those instances and Aramis’ rather graphic descriptions of the aspects of them that related less to the heart and more to other parts of the body. The memory made more blood rise to Athos’ face. He shrugged. “Legally, as well as in the eyes of the church, I believe, these are very similar crimes.”

Which made it his duty to… He punished crimes. He had been his duty before and he had… he had killed for that duty. And now? Was it any less the duty of a musketeer than the duty of a comte? But wasn’t his duty, above all, to protect his brothers?

Aramis gave him a wry smile. “I’m still the same sinner.” He rested his hand on Porthos’ arm that was still clutched around his waist. Maybe they had been like that all night.

“What about him?” Aramis asked, his voice so low Athos could barely hear it.

Athos considered his answer. He did not mean to be dismissive of a matter that clearly affected Aramis, but he did not find the problem he was apparently expected to see. Surely, both were the same, both brothers deserving of his support and protection.

“He’s still the same man that dragged me from the ditch all those years ago,” he said. “A wonderful man.”

Aramis’ smile grew a little softer at that. “He is,” he said. “But the world doesn’t…”

Athos shook his head. He propped himself up on his elbows so he could look at Aramis properly. “The world measures with different gauges. He is hardly the only one.”

If it was a duty then many failed at it. Plenty of noblemen shared each other’s beds, up to the very highest echelons of society. It was a crime, yes, but hardly an unusual one.

Aramis gnawed on his lip for so long Athos nearly lowered himself back to the bed again, convinced he wanted to end the conversation. Eventually, Aramis spoke. “But he’s the one I care about and… he’s very exposed, very easy to…” He clamped his teeth down so hard, Athos expected to see blood.

He understood that, of course. As a musketeer, and a very exceptional one in every way, Porthos was in the public eye. And contrary to others who were much more exposed, he had no title or status to make people overlook certain things or even indulge him.

“We cross that bridge when we get to it,” he said. “And I will cross it by your side. I’m certainly in no position to cast the first stone.”

Aramis sighed so deeply, Porthos shifted behind him, adjusting his hold and snuffling softly into Aramis’ neck.

“Thank you,” Aramis said. “I’m sorry we dragged you into this. We shouldn’t… Last night… It was so kind of you to say, but we shouldn’t have done this. I’m sorry.”

Aramis’ frown deepened while Athos thought of his response. Dragging him into this… Yes, indeed, Athos had been dragged into many things over the years. Let himself be dragged, sometimes reluctantly. But into this?

“I went willingly,” he said. “Willingly, and indeed, gladly.”

Aramis didn’t look at him, instead staring at his fingers that traced patterns on Porthos’ arm. “I needed this,” he said. “Just… one night. This. It stops the thoughts. I can just be. Here and now and not…” He vaguely waved his hand.

Athos understood that. He sympathised. He was no stranger to that feeling, that need to anchor himself to the present, to stop his thoughts from straying.

“For the first time, I slept without remembering,” Aramis continued. “He’s always done that for me, even after Savoy. I don’t have to think when he holds me.”

Not thinking while being held… Athos was very glad that this was Porthos they were talking about, good, loyal Porthos. It was so easy to trust the wrong person with powers like that. To forget one’s duty in that trust.

“I’m glad it worked,” he said.

Aramis nodded. “After all that has happened, I need to lose myself in something… someone.”

Losing himself. By God, Athos needed that. To stop the thoughts, to stop himself from being his strange, defective self. Losing it all. He needed to lose himself so badly. Usually, he did that in a barrel of wine, but he had to admit that losing oneself in a person sounded much healthier. Not that that was an option for him. He had already demonstrated his utter inability to select a suitable person. But for Aramis who was, at least in this case, a much better judge of character, it sounded magnificent. A solution to all their recent sorrow.

“I would like that,” he said. “Losing it all, losing myself.”

Aramis chuckled. “It’s the new remedy for everything. Let’s go and lose ourselves.”

Freedom… No more dreams, no more memories, no more thoughts keeping him awake, no more unbidden images, no more stench seeping out of his pores…

“Why’d you wanna do that?” Porthos’ words were slurred with sleepiness. “You’re wonderful. Why’d you wanna lose yourselves?”

Aramis rolled his eyes at Athos while patting Porthos’ arm. “Why would I want to be boring old me when I can attach myself to you like a limpet?”

Porthos disentangled himself and raised his head up on his elbow, glaring down at Aramis like a strict tutor. “Because you’re no limpet. You’re good the way you are and I won’t have you losing yourself.”

Aramis stroked Porthos’ broad chest. “Trust me, it’s better that way. It’s what Tréville wants, after all. He lets us hunker down here and hide until the worst has passed.”

Porthos frowned. “I don’t think he wants that. He’ll want us to actually fix—”

“And look what a bit of bread has done for Athos,” Aramis said. “Warm baths and beds and plenty of food, and we’re all fixed up perfectly. Another few days of this and we’ll be good as new.”

Very quickly, their talk turned from downright philosophical back to their usual banter. It carried them through breakfast and into the stables where their horses were getting antsy with the lack of exercise. Fortunately, the rain had stopped and the sun occasionally peeked through the clouds, making for rather pleasant riding weather, despite the frosty wind. After Aramis had reassured Porthos multiple times that he really, truly, wasn’t cold anymore—further confirming Athos’ theory that much of his need for warmth came from his heart—they rode out across the fields.

It was a beautiful day, even Athos recognised that. It was a relief to him to see beauty once more. The low rays of the sun made the stubble fields shine golden, the rich, dark earth a stunning contrast. The whole scene was so different from the environment they had grown used to, the trampled, trench-riddled marshes of La Rochelle.

Aramis was once again arguing with his mare, keeping a few paces ahead of them as she tested his abilities and patience all at once. As Porthos remarked, she was an excellent judge of the limits of both. It felt refreshingly normal, the three of them riding out together, Aramis in conversation with his horse, Porthos looking at him fondly and laughing at their antics. They raced each other, galloping to the edge of the forest. For once even Porthos’ usually lethargic gelding joined in with the friendly competition, angering Aramis’ mare who was used to winning these little sprints.

The scene could not have been further removed from Athos’ emotions the previous morning. Those dark demons were safely locked away now and he did indeed, like Aramis had said, feel as good as new.

Horses and riders alike where pleasantly flushed when they slowed to a canter. It occurred to Athos that this was all he needed in this world. His friends, their horses, and the freedom to enjoy both. It was very little, but enough.

“You can’t do that,” Porthos said, startling Athos from his reverie. “You know you can’t run away from it. I don’t like you talking of losing yourself. That’s not right.”

“Porthos…” Aramis rolled his eyes again. “We’ve been over this. It’s fine. We’re fine. It’s all over now. Back to normal.”

“It’s not though, is it? We’ve not actually fixed anything.”

Aramis stopped his horse. “Yes, we have. We’re fed, we’re clean, we’re rested, and don’t tell me you didn’t get the exact same thing out of last night. You wanted to forget and disappear as much as I did.”

“I didn’t.”

How could anyone not? Disappearing, at least mentally, seemed the only feasible response to all that had occurred, for them with all their previous experience even more so than for Athos.

Aramis shook his head and spurred his horse on again. “Of course you did,” he shouted over his shoulder. “Don’t tell me I’m not the best distraction you’ve ever had.”

“You’re…” Porthos’ voice faltered. “It’s not about hiding or getting lost. It’s about… about being together and moving forward together and fixing things for real.”

Like any of this could be fixed. Athos admired Porthos’ optimism but it seemed as pointless as hoping the clouds would never return. No life was blessed with eternal sunshine.

“Not my fault you recover faster.” Aramis’ voice had turned sharp and venomous with accusation.

The air around them cooled by several degrees and they finished their ride in silence, took care of their horses without speaking more than necessary, and focussed most of their conversation on their hostesses and a few other customers during lunch.

Back in their room, Aramis sat on his own bed, legs spread wide, taking up all the space. Porthos perched on the edge of the middle bed, looking dejected. 

“I’m not recovered,” he said. “There’s so much. You. And all those poor sods. And the worry. And don’t think I like seeing you two like this.”

“We’re not _like_ anything,” Athos said.

“You’re not fine, either,” Porthos said. “You don’t go running off when you are and you don’t talk silly about losing yourself.”

Athos silently conceded the first part, but not the second one. Thinking about it, he was certain he had always wanted to lose himself.

“It’s not about losing yourself,” Porthos continued.

“You’re doing it, too,” Aramis said, staring at the ceiling. “You fuss about us like a nanny goat. Don’t think I don’t know you’re hiding from your own crap.”

“I’m not losing myself,” Porthos said. “I’m finding myself again. I couldn’t take care of you for way too long.”

Aramis huffed. “See, you’re sweet like that.”

Porthos shook his head. “It’s not about me. La Rochelle, all of that, it’s over now. We can go back to our old selves.”

And what if they didn’t want to? What if La Rochelle had revealed who they truly were? What if all the good things before then had been the exception and this horror a return to the rule? Hadn’t Athos faced the same conflicts of heart and duty before? What if there was nowhere to go back to? What if the horror wasn’t La Rochelle at all? What if the horror was them?

“Porthos…” Aramis sounded tired. “That’s so kind of you. But some things even you can’t fix.”

“Like what?”

“You’re sweet and all, but you’re not going to suddenly banish all evil from the world. You can’t go wrestle with Satan, as much as you’d like to.”

“But—”

“For the love of Christ, will you just leave it?”

Athos had never heard Aramis that aggravated with Porthos, but he had to admit he was glad that the harsh words shut Porthos up. Porthos would never accept it. He was too good to understand that some people were so very far from good, that they had no perfect, pleasant state to return to.

They spent the afternoon in the courtyard of the inn, sparring. Or fighting, rather, because none of them were holding back. They didn’t hurt each other, but that was more down to their impenetrable defences than any leniency on the attack. They knew each other too well. They anticipated every move and parried it before it could harm them. A small crowd gathered to watch them and for once Athos relished the attention. They could show the countryfolk how real musketeers fought. Would any of them understand that this could well be a fight to the death? Did they realise that they would not withstand these blows for more than a minute? Athos hoped they didn’t. They should not be that ruined.

Parry and attack. All three of them fought with both hands, making and breaking alliances in the blink of an eye. Every man for himself in this dog eat dog world. The people cheered and gasped, each finding and losing their favourite in turn.

Bread and games, that’s how the ancient emperors had pacified their people. And here they were, three gladiators of the present day, fighting for their lives or against them, he didn’t quite know. The only reason they didn’t devour each other whole was that they knew their weaknesses too well. Was this entertainment enough for these peasants? If it wasn’t, then maybe their efforts would at least draw the crowds into the inn. It was the least they could do for Madame Pettit.

Porthos coughed. Distracted for a split second, he didn’t raise his sword in time, didn’t parry the blow, and Athos struggled to stop his blade. He hadn’t expected that. Steel rushed towards unguarded flesh. Then steel met steel. Aramis’ sword. Aramis’ eyes were blazing.

“Enough.”

The tone of command was rare in his voice. But he was right. Enough. Time to end it before it ended badly. Now that he’d stopped, Athos felt the burn in his arms. They had not fought like this in many months. Captain Tréville would never permit it and Athos could not set such a bad example for the regiment.

Their audience voiced their approval of the show they had seen, people flocking to each of them to talk and pat their backs. These people knew no fear, had no idea what they had seen and what this display meant for all who opposed them with any less skill. To these innocents, the circus had come to town. A performance, a play these strange visitors had staged about a life as distant to anyone in La Roche-Posay as the fantastic creations of Paris’ best playwrights.

Wine was bought for them and they sat together on a bench, the triple centres of attention as questions were asked and answered. Losing themselves again, because as long as they talked to these people, they didn’t have to talk to each other. For once, Athos enjoyed the company of so many when on any other day he would have fled the room or at the very least hidden himself in some dark corner. He wasn’t himself here. According to Captain Tréville’s instructions, they were ordinary soldiers. Nothing special about them, nothing at all. Three of thousands in the many, many unknown regiments in that siege. People had heard of the siege, of course, even in this sleepy town. Had heard of their glorious victory. They played along, saying as little as they could, never dispelling that myth. Let people believe what they want. Let them rest easy that night knowing their king and country had won, that their religion remained triumphant. Let them remember how easy it looked, the fight a dance of flashing swords, never understanding the danger and savagery of it all. That ignorance, too, was protection.

They went to bed late that night, stumbling up the stairs when the last patrons left. The wine dulled Athos’ thoughts to a bearable level, his limbs heavy and ears ringing from the incessant chatter. But he still noticed that Porthos and Aramis were in separate beds again. 

Athos was chilled by the distance Aramis kept. Or maybe the chill was simply in the air as the morning greeted them with sun and thick frost like spun sugar adorning every surface. He had to stop thinking of the cold as anything but a physical phenomenon.

A beautiful day, their host declared it. Each of them agreed, individually. They took their breakfast downstairs, glad to escape the heavy silence of their room. Athos talked to Odette, a pleasant and inquisitive girl, and Aramis put his charms to good use with her mother. It kept everyone occupied and kept them from having to talk to each other. Having that weight lifted made breathing easier. Their room had nearly suffocated them that morning.

When Madame Pettit suggested they take a walk by the river to enjoy the weather and the crisp fresh air, none of them could think of a suitable excuse. It would do them good, she insisted. Clear their heads. Work up an appetite for lunch. All good things, of course. They could hardly disagree with her logic. Fortunately, they were met on every corner by one of their enthralled audience from the night before. Pleasantries were exchanged and masked the lack of conversation between the three of them.

Porthos made the first attempt at conversation as they approached the church.

“Would you like to go in?” he asked Aramis, pointing at the squat little building.

“Why?” Aramis snorted.

“I don’t know.” Porthos shrugged. “Say a prayer. Go to confession. Whatever you usually do.”

“Oh, now you want me to confess.” Aramis laughed. It was shrill and humourless. “Let’s see if the priest’s ears fall off, eh? Or maybe I’ll be struck by lightning as soon as I open the door. That’d be nice, wouldn’t it?”

He dragged his cloak tighter around himself and stalked away. It was unlike him to pass by a church, but thinking about it now… It had been a long while since Aramis had been to church unless it had been forced upon him by their duties. Richelieu’s mass at La Rochelle, of course, but they had hardly been there to tend to their immortal souls.

“Maybe give thanks,” Athos ventured. “At least we are all still alive.”

“And isn’t that a blessing.” Aramis’ voice dripped with sarcasm.

“Yes, it is.” Porthos stopped in front of the church. “We’re alive and we’re here and we’re together. That _is_ a blessing.”

“You go in then.” Aramis waved his hand dismissively, not even looking at them.

“But Aramis, you—”

“What?” Aramis turned on his heel, rounding on Porthos. “What do you want? Is this another one of your stupid attempts at taking care of me?”

Porthos jerked like the words had been the lashes of a whip.

“Aramis,” Athos hissed. “Don’t make a scene.”

They didn’t need to make a spectacle of themselves, not here, in the middle of the town. They were known here now. What would people think?

“Fine.”

Without another word, Aramis stalked down the street. He kept his body very stiff until he slipped on the shiny ice that covered the high bridge across the river. Athos tried to steady him with a hand on his arm, but found it swiftly brushed away. They hurried after Aramis, over the bridge and past the mill to a path along the river.

The frozen ground crunched beneath their boots.

“I thought it would help,” Porthos said.

Aramis turned to face him, an ugly snarl marring his handsome features. Athos held his breath, anticipating a vicious reply.

“Did you now? And of course you always know what’s best for me, don’t you?” Aramis batted his eyelashes, for once not winsome at all.

“That’s not what I meant.” Porthos’ voice was firm, but his eyes were pleading. He seemed impenetrable sometimes, tall and broad and strong, stoically weathering whatever life threw at them. But Athos had noticed over time that beneath that, he cared deeply.

How quickly things changed. It seemed much more than a day ago that he had woken up to Aramis worrying about Porthos’ fate, the two of them holding onto each other, drawing strength from the touch. Now every word they said was an assault. Athos agreed with Aramis to an extent. Porthos couldn’t fix them and he had to abandon his attempts. But there was no need to assert that point with such savagery.

“What did you think I should do? Pray for the health of our dear cardinal, that Christ-like example of charity?” Aramis’ mockery, as always, exposed and exploited all weaknesses. “Ask the Lord to send us more of these blessed campaigns so we can murder more innocents in his name? Oh yes, I forgot, we’re so _blessed._ ”

“It’s over now,” Porthos insisted. “We made it through.”

“Yes, of course, no heathens left in La Rochelle for us to kill.” Aramis sneered. “What do you think will happen on Monday? Which city will they send us to next? Oh, what? You don’t think they’ve come up with some more by now? Think again! They can’t keep us animals on the leash for too long. They have to release us to kill some more.”

“We’re not animals.”

Aramis’ dissonant laughter tore at Athos’ ears. “We’re dogs, all of us,” Aramis said. “They whistle, and we jump. Just point us to their prey and there we go, slobbering with glee, eager to please our masters.”

“That’s not all there is,” Athos said. “We’re musketeers, we’re…” He stopped, unsure of what exactly they were. They killed and sometimes they buried the dead as well. They went where they were sent, did as they were told… Aramis wasn’t wrong.

Aramis pounced on his indecision. “What are we other than sharper weapons? Killing more efficiently, that’s all we’re good for.”

“The king trusts us,” Porthos said. “That’s got to count for something.”

“Oh yes, of course.” Aramis faked surprise. “How silly of me to forget. Remind me again, what has that brought us? Oh, wait, I think I remember: Misery!”

“But the king—”

“The king doesn’t care.” Aramis spat out that treason like sour milk.

Porthos’ face fell, his eyebrows drawing together. “He even said he’d give you a medal,” he said.

“Oh sure. And, did he remember? Did he even know I was the same man who was taken some months later?”

If he had known, he’d certainly given no indication. The king had been incensed, yes, but in the manner of a child who had been told to share a favourite toy. A valuable item lost, not a precious man who had saved his life.

“He sent his doctor for me,” Porthos tried again.

“And a fat lot of good that did.” Even in his ire, Aramis couldn’t suppress a shudder, being reminded of that incident.

“He couldn’t have known that. He did the best he could.” Porthos was nothing if not stubborn. “He cares about us.”

“No more than he cares about his dogs,” Athos said. They turned, surprised, it seemed, to hear him speak and weigh in on the matter. It was true, though.

“See,” Aramis hissed. “Athos knows.”

He did indeed. He knew what common men meant to those in charge. Some notable exceptions like Captain Tréville aside, nobles had no time for them. Athos should know. As musketeers they were only slightly more valuable cannon fodder than Porthos had been in the infantry. Good enough to keep them around, useful, for sure. But in the end all of them were as replaceable as a torn shirt. To noblemen and certainly to those at the king’s court, a commoner was worth no more than dirt beneath their shoes.

“We are not dogs,” Porthos said, still not seeing the commonalities. Blessed innocent that he was.

Aramis crossed his arms in front of his chest. “Do you think he’d hesitate to have you shot like one if he knew?”

Across the fields, the church bell rang noon. No other sound could be heard. All three of them held their breath, and the world followed suit, falling entirely silent after the last tremor of the bells had faded in the cold air.

“It’s a risk worth taking,” Porthos said. He held his head up high, unbowed and unafraid. As if he was already facing the firing squad.

“For what?” Aramis asked. “For me? Yes? I assure you it’s not. It won’t make you any happier to hang beside me.”

Hanging. A trapdoor opened and Athos’ stomach dropped. Because of course they’d be hanged. The death by firing squad considered too noble for ordinary men, even such extraordinary ones as these. Men or women. Hanging for their crimes. Athos glanced out over the fields, his eyes finding a solitary tree. Sturdy branches, sturdy enough…

“Nobody will be hanged,” Athos said. “That is not something I’m willing to countenance.”

“Welcome to the real world, then, where what you countenance counts for nothing.” Aramis threw his hands in the air. “Grow up.”

Growing up had made him so intimately familiar with hanging in the first place. Growing up and realising that his dreams, his wants counted for nothing.

“We’re not talking about that,” Porthos said.

“We’re talking about us risking our lives every day for nothing.”

“That’s not true.”

“Oh, isn’t it?” Aramis sneered at him. “You risk your life for a king who doesn’t care, for a church who makes us murderers, and now you want to add me to that sorry collection?”

“Aramis, I—”

“It’s not worth it.” Aramis’ tone turned colder than their icy surroundings. “Trust me. I’ve tried. I keep trying and trying every time. Truth is, it doesn’t work. Not one of them has ever fixed me. It doesn’t work like that. You can’t love anyone better.”


	5. Chapter 5

“I can’t do this anymore.” Porthos dropped the sock he’d been darning “You. I can’t cope with the two of you like that.”

The ground tilted. If Athos hadn’t already been lying in his bed, he would have fallen. He stared at Porthos, then at Aramis. Aramis’ face was a mirror image of his own. Shock.

It had happened. After all this time. After all the fights and drunken nights, Porthos had finally had enough. It wasn’t even a surprise, not really. Of course Porthos would get fed up eventually. Of course he would. Knowing it was coming didn’t lessen the horror when the moment arrived

“I’m sorry.” Aramis closed his bible with a heavy thud and got up. “I’ll…”

Athos envied him his position by the door. His own escape would be trickier. He’d done it, of course, that first morning. But…

“Sit.”

Porthos never used that tone. Not with them and very rarely with anyone else. It always worked with the efficiency of a ton of bricks. Aramis dropped back onto his bed like he’d been knocked down.

“You stay and you hear me out.” Porthos’ statement left no room for debate. “And then if you want to run, you do. But you listen to me first. Cause I’m not watching this any longer. Both of you.”

What was it that had finally pushed him over the edge? Aramis’ harsh words the day before. Athos agreeing with them… Too much, too much in the end. And where did that leave them? No, you couldn’t love anyone better. Athos knew that very well. But losing love… that could make everything much worse.

Losing Porthos.

Their own fault.

They shouldn’t…

“It’s not anything you’ve done,” Porthos said. He got up from his bed and leaned against the opposite wall, levelling his gaze on Aramis. “And it’s not anything you’ve said. It’s not your fault.”

When he looked at Athos, his eyes seemed to bore straight into the deepest, darkest recesses of his rotten soul. Nothing they did. Nothing they said. Just what they were. He got it. _I can’t cope with who you are._ Of course he couldn’t. Of course not. He’d tried long enough. Maybe Porthos had finally understood. He always took time mulling things over. He had finally realised that Aramis was right. He couldn’t love them better. He could drag Athos out of his bottles and Aramis out of his melancholia, but he would never be able to change the people they were underneath it all.

“You are wonderful,” Porthos continued. “I’ve never met two better men; I’ve never had better friends. I know how you’re taking this, but believe me, I don’t love you any less.”

Aramis’ laugh sounded like he was being strangled, raw and desperate. “Don’t,” he said. “I stand by what I said. I should not have said it the way I did, but what I said was right. It’s not worth it, Porthos.”

Porthos put a finger across his lips “Shh. You said your piece. My turn now.” He looked abashed at his own forwardness. “Please, let me. I don’t think I can start this twice.”

Athos nodded. His head felt like it was being moved by external forces as it wobbled on his neck. Panic was still threatening to overwhelm him. But this was obviously important to Porthos. He had to let him do this. He owed him that much.

“You’re miserable. Don’t say you’re fine. You’re not. You’re miserable and I’m done watching you be miserable.”

They didn’t argue. Athos felt he couldn’t. He always said he was fine, but there was so much truth in Porthos’ words. He _was_ miserable. Not only the ordinary level of misery, the everyday misery he had grown accustomed to. This was bone deep. He ached with it. He couldn’t smell the dead anymore. The stench was gone, but the thoughts still lingered. They weighed him down, pinned him to this bed and clouded every thought, every word, every deed.

“We’ll get better,” Aramis said. Athos wondered if they would or if this time they were too far gone. “It’s over now.”

“It’s not though, is it?” Porthos sank down on the wall until he was sitting on the floor, looking up at them. “You’re right. There’s still Huguenots around. And if it’s not them, it’s the Spanish or the Dutch or the English. There’s always another siege, another war.”

“Not another one like this,” Athos said. As soon as the words left his mouth, he wondered if he actually meant them. Probably not.

Porthos shook his head. “I’ve been in this war for six years now. Everything else has changed. I’m a musketeer now, I read and write, I have two wonderful friends, and I see the king most days. Everything else has gotten better, but I’m still doing sieges. And it still kills me to watch my friends… it’s not so different now than it was at Montpellier with Martin and Claude.”

“We’re both alive.”

“Are you?” Porthos let the question linger. “You curl up like a hedgehog, all spiky and hard, but inside the soft bits are bleeding.”

And that was it, wasn’t it? There shouldn’t be any soft bits left to bleed. That was their failure. Hard men on the outside, for all to see, but inside… Captain Tréville had seen. He knew they weren’t what they seemed. He’d sent them away for it. Sort themselves out, make sure they could live up to the standards of the regiment once more. They had to be ordered to do so like negligent recruits not honing their weapons.

“I resent the hedgehog metaphor,” Aramis said.

Porthos sighed. “You know I don’t know what that word means.”

“It means—” Athos started, but Porthos waved for him to stop.

“He’s stalling. And I’m not interested.”

It wasn’t a bad strategy. They both knew Porthos loved to learn and could rarely resist a new word, a new concept to apply. Athos could correct Aramis, explain that _like a hedgehog_ was a simile, not a metaphor. They could have a beautiful, pointless argument about it all. Porthos would drink it up. But Porthos knew their game.

“I’m thankful for the week we’ve got,” Porthos said. “But I’m afraid of what’ll happen to you when we go back. This has brought up a lot of bad stuff and I’m not sure how you’ll cope.”

“We’ll be—”

“If you say _fine_ now, I’ll have to gag you until I’m done.” Porthos looked like he meant it. “You’ll drown the memories until you know you’ll be too far gone to even dream. And Aramis… I don’t want to go back there. I can’t.”

“Well, if I’m too much, I can always…” Aramis tried for his usual air of superiority, but his voice wobbled. Maybe that was his truth. Maybe he actually thought he was too much.

“Don’t be silly,” Porthos said. “I’d do it all again with you, if I had to. But it’s not like that. If I can stop this now, I won’t have to. And if I don’t have to that means you’re not suffering.”

“We’ve been over this. This is beyond you, beyond any of us.”

Unless Aramis’ prayers finally started working and his God finally smote the cardinal. Athos didn’t say that. Even when he wouldn’t enter a church, Aramis would probably still get upset about sacrilege.

“There aren’t that many Huguenot strongholds left,” he said instead. “Eventually, this war must end. And while there will be other battles to be fought, they at least won’t be sieges against fellow Frenchmen.”

“That’s true,” Aramis said. “I think it is this civil war that I find hardest.”

Which sounded nice enough, good, solid logic. But then of course, Savoy had not been civil war.

“It won’t last forever,” Porthos conceded. “But we haven’t got another year or two. Heavens, I wonder if we’ve got another month until you jump from a belfry.”

Aramis curled up on himself, very much like a hedgehog. “I won’t,” he said to his knees.

“You won’t…” Porthos made it more question than statement.

The cool, dark earth… covering him, covering his eyes, his ears, his mouth, his nose until everything was dark and cool and gone. Lying down beside the last Huguenot. Leaving this world… With an effort, Athos dragged himself back from those fantasies. He was here now and he needed to focus on Porthos.

“Come Monday,” Porthos said. “What are we going to do?”

“We’ll ride north and join the king at Chenonceaux,” Athos replied.

“And then?”

“We report to Captain Tréville and await our orders.”

“The campaign will rest during the winter.” Aramis’ voice was steady and rational, ever the experienced veteran, but he still spoke to his knees. “Many regiments are disbanded so the men can feed themselves over the winter. We’ll winter at the garrison. Help with preparations. Supplies. Intelligence. Come spring, recruitment will commence. I reckon by May we’ll be back on the road.”

“Which gives us half a year to regroup,” Athos said. “So you needn’t worry.”

“And this time next year, do we get another week?” Porthos asked. “Is that enough? One week to put ourselves back together and then we’re back out there doing the same thing again?”

“That’s the life we have chosen.”

It was ironic to hear Aramis say that when he always told them that really, he should have been a priest, that he had wanted to go down that path. He still flirted with the religious life nearly as often as he broke any notion of celibacy.

“Life doesn’t have to be unchanged,” Porthos said. “We can improve it.”

“We will,” Aramis said. “We’ll be better equipped, come spring.”

“How?”

Aramis shrugged. “You build up resilience over time. You know what’s coming.”

Porthos crossed his arms. “Seems to be working really well for you.”

Aramis shrugged again. Maybe he was running out of gestures as well as arguments. “It’s not always as bad. Many sieges go smoothly. None last as long as La Rochelle. We’ve seen the worst of it now.”

“And it’s taken everything from us,” Porthos said. “Listen to yourself. You don’t even talk to me anymore, you’re so desperate to hide, to not be challenged.”

“I’m not hiding, Porthos. But I don’t see the point of this aimless talk about nothing.”

Porthos shook his head. “Why can’t you go inside a church?”

“I told you,” Aramis said. “Don’t feel like it. Don’t look at me like that. Athos never feels like it and you only go when I drag you. This is nothing unusual.”

“Have you written to your family?”

Aramis flinched. “That’s none of your concern.”

“So you haven’t.”

“What would I tell them? Celebrated mass at La Rochelle. Paved the road to the church with skeletons. How very uplifting. I’m sure they’d be delighted.”

“They’d know you’re alive.”

“What a relief that would be. Their son is murdering his way around France. All their dreams have come true.”

“You always say they are religious,” Athos said. “Surely they would appreciate that you are serving the church and the cardinal.”

He wasn’t even questioning the statement about murder anymore.

Aramis hugged his knees to his chest and rested his chin on them. “Theirs is a religion of love, not war.”

And what he did was too much. Too much war. Too much politics. Too much for them to take and still accept him. He was afraid of losing his perfect family, the parents and siblings he loved and who loved him. For once, Athos appreciated having nobody who cared about him. How could he come home and tell anyone about the thousands of dead bodies he had seen? They must never know. Those horrors had to stay behind, had to remain in the war. What would they think of him? Well… he knew what his late family would have thought of him. That he was a fool and an embarrassment for debasing himself so. A Comte de la Fère digging graves like the basest of labourers.

Even within the regiment, they would not speak of these things. The winter would be a time for routines, for palace duty and training and little missions into the surrounding countryside. They’d left the war behind, knowing it would come for them again. Already, their return to war, to slaughter and death, filled him with dread. How much worse was it for Aramis, a man in possession of and concerned for his immortal soul?

“And what’s yours?” Porthos asked.

Aramis didn’t answer. Minutes ticked by. Voices floated up from the floor below, but they seemed far away.

“What does it matter?” Aramis sighed. “It’s not my decision to make.”

“Of course it matters.”

“What do you want me to say?”

“What’s your religion all about?”

“I’ve been a soldier all my adult life. What do you think it is?”

“You’ve loved for longer.”

“And despite my best efforts, not nearly as many people as I’ve killed.”

The sentence dropped like a rock in water. Aramis loved easily. He was genuinely heartbroken for every ended affair, but he returned to love like Athos returned to the bottle. How many people had he loved? Athos didn’t know. They came and went, brief flirtations and lasting liaisons. Some names stuck, others didn’t. He had given up trying to keep track. Had he ever really tried? It wasn’t something he was interested in. But how many more people had Aramis killed? He killed easily as well. Made it look like an art. A dance with the sword or a shot from nowhere. Long prepared or spur of the moment. He killed like he loved, just more often.

“You’ve always had religion. And you still have it now.”

“Sure. I’ll come around to it again.” Aramis didn’t look at Porthos. “I’ll be a good Christian soldier again soon. Not like I have a choice.”

He sounded so dejected; Athos wanted to tell him there was always a choice. But was there? Or was that just a dream the spoiled young sons of the nobility told each other? They could do anything, take what they wanted and never face the consequences. Only… it didn’t work like that, not even for the man he used to be. He had done what he wanted. Taken what he wanted, who he wanted. And then reality had caught up with him. Aramis was right. There was no choice.

“You’ve never not been,” Porthos said. “You said the prayers for these priests.”

“Pastors,” Aramis corrected. “And I don’t think the cardinal would approve.” He laughed bitterly.

“It’s not about him,” Porthos said.

“He’s the cardinal. He’s the king’s principal minister. He’s our commander. It’s all about him.”

“This is about you. For me it’s about you.”

“Never again accuse me of being a romantic.” Aramis snorted. “It’s not about what we want, what we like or don’t like. Richelieu is everything. And he will squash all opposition. So he’ll continue to be everything.”

“I know that. But for now, focus on you. What do you want?”

What did he want? Athos never wanted to leave this bed again. Never face the outside world again. But that wasn’t an option. He wanted to return to before, to their good life in Paris. But he had learned that nobody could turn back time. The good times never returned.

Aramis buried his face between his knees again.

“To be a good man,” he said, voice soft, but determined.

He was. Never anything else. But Athos could see why he didn’t think he was. Not true, but understandable.

Porthos nodded. For a moment, his body strained forward, but then he slumped back against the wall. “What about you, Athos?”

Turn back time. Turn back time.

Not possible.

Think. Think.

Say something.

He shrugged.

“Take your time,” Porthos said.

Silence. And Athos’ mind was blank. He wanted… he’d never be a good man. He never was, not even in those heady days in Paris that he now remembered so fondly. What was it that had been so good back then? What had dragged him away from the wine and to the garrison? Porthos, of course. But in the abstract, what had it been?

“To have a purpose.”

His own voice sounded odd to him. So small. Pathetic. He was pathetic. A sorry excuse for a man, a son, an heir. A musketeer.

Porthos nodded. “I get that.”

“What about you?” Aramis asked.

“A bit of both. I want to do good things and I want to do them with you.”

“The romantic again.”

Porthos shrugged. “I like your company and you help me improve all the time.”

By teaching him how to read, how to swim. By arguing about metaphors and similes and whatever other nonsense they could think of. Improving skills and knowledge rather than Porthos himself.

“So how do we do that?” Porthos asked.

Athos was confused. “What do you mean?”

“Aramis doesn’t feel like a good man. You think you don’t have a purpose. And I’m certainly not doing any good with you right now. So how do we change that?”

A choice, after all. But what were the options?

“We know what we want,” Porthos said. “And we know what we’ve got. We’re not changing the mind of the cardinal. So how do we get what we want even though he is… who he is.”

“Where is this all leading?” Aramis asked. “I’m tired.”

It wasn’t late, but Athos agreed. He could sleep for a week. Or forever.

“Options,” Porthos said.

“There are no options.” Athos was half surprised that he’d said it out loud.

“Do you want to work with Tréville again?” Porthos asked. “Do his paperwork?”

Did he? Athos had no idea. Was that an option? “He will tell me if he has need of me.”

“He’ll follow your lead,” Porthos said. “So yes or no?”

Athos shrugged. “Don’t know.”

“I’m not doing it,” Aramis said. “It’s all so… so political. So far away. I know it’s important, but… it feels like shooting all over again. So far away and yet…”

Shooting, but so many more people. Politics. And Athos enjoyed it.

“What about shooting?” Porthos asked.

Aramis let his head fall back until it rested against the wall. He stared up at the ceiling, taking deep breaths.

“How can I ever be a good man if I’m a monster?”

Athos sat up straight, staring at him. “You’re not a monster.”

“I like it.” Aramis kept his eyes closed, but he was talking fast now. “I enjoy shooting. I’m good at it. I can do something nobody else can.”

“You save lives with it.”

“It’s not what I like about it. I mean… of course I do, but it’s not the main thing. I love the thrill, the challenge, the moment when they drop before anyone even knows that I’m there. I love it.”

“You do it fast,” Athos said. “You’re efficient. Don’t hit any bystanders. And like with the paperwork… if you do it, nobody else has to.”

“I don’t do it for any of those reasons. I do it because I enjoy it.”

“That’s not true. You’d be shooting people all the time then.”

“Well, of course only when I need to.”

“So it’s not about enjoying it.”

“Of course I’m not going to go and shoot people just because I can.”

“See, you’re not a monster.” A tentative smile twitched across Porthos’ face.

Aramis sighed. “I don’t want to shoot innocent people.”

“And I don’t want to write the orders that kill them,” Athos said.

Porthos nodded. “That’s fair.”

“It’s not though, is it?” Aramis asked. “Innocent or not—and don’t tell me there aren’t innocents, remember that boy I shot before they took me—we’re soldiers and we follow orders.”

Athos massaged his forehead. He could already see the inevitable. They’d rejoin the regiment and then… “We go back and we follow orders,” he said. “There’s no way around it.”

"We don't have to go back,” Porthos said.

Athos shook his head. "We have our orders."

A gasp from Aramis made him look up. Aramis and Porthos were looking at each other. Aramis’ mouth dropped open. Then Porthos turned his attention to Athos. A long look.

No.

He couldn’t mean.

We don’t have to go back.

We have our orders.

He was still looking.

Athos broke the eye contact. Looked at Aramis for help. Aramis looked like he had seen a ghost.

“You don’t mean…”

He couldn’t.

They couldn’t.

There was no way.

And yet… they didn’t have to obey orders.

Porthos took a deep breath. “I don’t mind how you are getting out of this. But you’re getting out of it. I’m offering an alternative.”

Not going back to the regiment. No more orders. No more kills. No more death. No more terrors in the night, no more monsters in their beds.

It could all be over. They’d never have to fight another war, suffer through another siege. No more drowning to save the king. No more life-threatening injuries. No more abductions by the enemy. No more shooting innocents. They’d get to make up their own minds on who deserved what. Get to decide that there would be no more children in mass graves. Help the starving before it was too late.

It sounded so good.

But…

“You can’t mean that, Porthos,” Athos said. “You’d lose everything.”

Aramis had his family and the church, however strained those relationships were at the moment. Athos himself had the money to establish whatever life he wanted. He did not have to worry. But Porthos… Porthos was nobody outside the regiment.

“You only have the regiment.”

Porthos smiled. “That’s my decision to make. Let me worry about myself. Think it through. Do you want to leave the regiment?”

A good man.

A purpose.

Do good things and do them with you.

Outside the regiment?

They’d never be released. Not now. Not while they were at war. Even Captain Tréville would not be able to give them their papers. But they didn’t have to go back.

Desertion was an option.

*****

“There are thousands of men returning home after the end of the siege,” Aramis said. “Nobody could tell.”

Deserters were shot on sight, but who would see?

Athos sank further down into the tub and let the hot water cover his entire body.

There’d be no brand on them, no mark of Cain. Three soldiers going home for the winter. Everyone would assume they were supposed to go. They hadn’t said they were musketeers here in La Roche-Posay. And nobody had assumed they were. Nobody could tell. They were no different here. Get rid of the pauldrons and the blue cloaks and nobody anywhere would know. They could disappear.

“Never easier,” Athos agreed.

“That’s what I thought,” Porthos said.

He was a shaky outline in the dense, fragrant mist.

It must have killed him to suggest it. They both knew that. And they had been kind. The day had been almost normal. They talked again. They had dinner. They were pleasant company. And beneath it all, they were thinking. And of course they were thinking about him even though he’d told them not to worry. Of course they did.

“Where would we go?” Athos asked. Nowhere, ideally. He could stay here forever, floating in the soft, milky water.

“Not to my family,” Aramis said.

“No, of course. They would suspect that.”

“Do you think they’d look?”

“Tréville would. He’d miss us.”

“But would he look? He wouldn’t want to.” Wouldn’t want to shoot them on sight. But he’d have to. He was a loyal soldier to the crown.

“I wonder…” Athos said. “I wonder if he means for us to leave.”

“Why do you think that?”

“He sent us here,” Aramis said. “Gave us the easiest opportunity we’d ever have. Gave us a week’s head start over any search party.”

“Who would search?”

“The king might. He hates losing his things.”

Because that’s what they were. Things. Useful, but no more. Annoying when lost. The king had an unpredictable temper. He might not even notice, might not care when he was told. Or he could become obsessed with hunting them down. No one could tell.

“I don’t mind where we go,” Porthos said. “As long as we’re together.”

Athos couldn’t see Aramis’ face, but he suspected he looked as exasperated as he himself did. Porthos said these things so easily. Never questioning. He’d go anywhere. Back into the sea if he had to.

“Mercenaries would be the obvious choice,” Aramis said.

“Think we’re good enough?”

“Anyone rejecting us would be a fool.”

“But where?”

“I’m not going to England,” Aramis said. “I’ve been once and the rain never stopped. Plus, I’m not converting.”

“Should go to Rome,” Porthos said. “You could be soldier and church man all at once. And you both speak the language.”

“They don’t actually speak Latin in Rome,” Athos said.

Porthos huffed. “Everyone in the church speaks Latin. We could just pretend that I’m mute. That could come in handy. Everyone would spill their secrets in front of me and then when I learn the words I can spy on them.”

“Aramis speaks Spanish.”

“So I’d be traveling with two mutes?” Aramis sighed. “That sounds heavenly. I could say whatever I want and you two would just have to take it.”

“We could still hit you.”

Water splashed and Porthos chuckled.

“We should upgrade your cover,” Aramis said. “Deaf and dumb.”

“Could you do it?” Athos asked. “Go over to Spain. Fight for them. Against the French.”

“Imagine we came up against the musketeers.”

All of them sighed.

“We can’t do that.”

“Not Spain, then,” Aramis said. “Shame. Nice weather there and they are good Catholics. Enemies, of course, but still…”

“We could stay here,” Athos said, stretching in the tub. Right there would be fine with him.

“They’d know where to find us then. Tréville won’t lie directly to the king.”

Of course. Athos groaned. “Shame, the wine’s nice around here. What about Alsace? Some of my favourite wines are from there.”

“Border regions are good for hiding,” Porthos said. “Always uncertainty there. Always people coming through. We wouldn’t stand out.”

“But we’d still be in France.”

“It’d be close to Switzerland. I always wanted to go there,” Porthos said. “There’s mountains as tall as the sky.”

“Let me tell you, it’s not all it’s cracked up to be.” Aramis shifted in his tub.

“But Alsace sounds good,” Athos said. “Their Tokay could keep me company for the rest of my days. They say the first vines were stolen from the Magyars a hundred years ago.”

“What would we do there?” Porthos asked. “You can’t just drink.”

“Speak for yourself,” Athos said. “We could get a great big country house, each of us with our own wing, and then we’d make a concerted effort to empty the cellars of all the local wineries.”

It warmed him from the inside. To share a house, to build a home. Together and safe for the rest of their days. They laughed. Of course they would laugh at that, never mind that Athos’ previous life had been very much like that. To them it was unthinkable to do nothing all day, to give in to hedonism for more than a few days.

“We’d have to do something,” Porthos said. Of course he would. He had already started to make small repairs around the inn, helping out the two women.

“What do you want to do?”

For a while, the only sound was the soft sloshing and splashing of the water.

“We’re too young to do nothing,” Aramis said.

“And too poor,” Porthos added. “That money from the captain won’t last forever.”

Athos smiled to himself. Quite right, that money wouldn’t. But his money might.

“We’d have to pay him back. Get some work and send him the money,” Porthos said. “Maybe we could use the postal service. I’ve always wanted to send a letter with them.”

Not with a royal courier. Athos could imagine his excitement upon entering a post house, seeing the post riders, and handing over his letter for posting.

“You’ve got to ruin it,” Aramis said. “I was going to say we’re too young to do nothing, we should at least host magnificent banquets for all the local gentry.”

“So you can snatch their wives? I don’t think so.”

The banter didn’t last for long. Soon each of them fell silent and they sat and soaked in their tubs.

Could they?

Desertion was a crime.

But so was killing people.


	6. Chapter 6

They went to church on Sunday. Partially because it would have caused a scandal in the small town if they hadn’t, but mainly because Aramis had asked them to. There was no resisting his pleading eyes. He hadn’t expected them to come, judging by his joy when they agreed. He couldn’t stop embracing them for quite some time.

There was no divine lightning bolt when they entered and the whole thing passed without incident. Athos did not care for church, but he knew how to keep up the façade of polite engagement. Lifelong practice payed off sometimes. It was important to be seen to do certain things, to set an example. And it certainly wasn’t among the worst services he had attended. He did like watching Aramis at church. He was in his element there as much as he ever was in a fight. Church was one of the very few things that could make him sit still for more than a few minutes. He prayed fervently and seemed to grow both stronger and calmer the longer the service lasted.

At first, people craned their heads to get a good look at them, but they soon satisfied their curiosity when none of them did anything even remotely interesting. Everyone calmed down and minded their own business eventually. Three soldiers weren’t that exciting after all. Not when their uniforms and even the colour of their skin had become a well-known sight around the town by now.

Porthos watched Aramis with a look of utter adoration. He was drinking him in like a man dying of thirst. And Athos would be willing to bet his last bottle of wine on Aramis’ prayer being, above all, for Porthos. They were good for each other. He felt privileged to be part of their circle, to be included in their plans for the future. Was he certain he’d be part of it? No. And he probably never would be. But he did acknowledge that there was a reasonable chance that he might be. It was a peaceful feeling he counted as a success.

After church there was lunch. The food was rich and nourishing. Madame Pettit was fussing over them, worried that she hadn’t done enough for them in their week at the inn. She’d been most upset when she heard they’d intended to stick to their plan and leave early the next morning. By her standards, they had not rested sufficiently, nor had they fattened up enough. Porthos did his level best to remedy the latter complaint by devouring second, third, and fourth helpings of everything on offer.

The majority of the town seemed to have lunch with them, the small inn crowded beyond capacity. It was hard to blame them. Winters were slow here, dreary and dull, and the presence of three strange men was an unrivalled diversion. It helped that Aramis had charmed all the women and Porthos had earned praise for his handiwork. They would be missed, if only for the fresh gossip they offered.

They carefully evaded any questions about the direction of their travels. Between them, they gathered information on all the different roads in the local area. Safety, state of repair, the next decent inn. North, south, east, and west. It was all good to know.

Would they go north? Athos didn’t know. He didn’t know if he wanted to go north. North meant the regiment and Captain Tréville, but also the king and the cardinal. He’d found a home with the musketeers, a purpose in his service to France, a place where he belonged at the garrison. But also… people to belong with. Friends who might want to take a different path. What counted more?

“Right,” Aramis said as soon as the door had closed behind them. “We’ve got plans to make.”

He sat down on his bed and stuck his legs up in the air. Porthos laughed and took off his boots for him. Athos shook his head but could not suppress a smirk either. This was serious. This was their future. The course of three lives depended on whatever plans they made now. If they did this, they would never be able to return to Paris. And here he was, laughing at their antics.

It felt right.

As did sitting down at the foot of Aramis’ bed again.

Porthos manhandled Aramis to sit between his outstretched legs. He took a deep breath. “Right. So what do you think?”

Aramis ran his hands through his hair, mussing it until stray curls stuck up in every direction. “I’ve thought a lot,” he said. “And I still don’t know.”

“You still want to be a good man?”

Aramis leaned back against Porthos’ chest and hummed his assent. “And a bit more than that. I want to be a good Frenchman.”

He looked from Porthos to Athos and back, suddenly nervous. “I’m sorry. I know that limits our options, but I… I just really… I’ve spilled blood for France. I’ve lost friends for France. I can’t help it. I’m French. I’ll never be anything else.”

Porthos smoothed down Aramis’ hair, gently rubbing his scalp. “I understand.”

“To clarify,” Athos said. “What does France mean for you? Paris or the provinces? The court or the people?”

“The people,” Aramis said without hesitation. “I know Paris best, but I’ve travelled far and wide and I’ve always… it’s that feeling, you know?”

Athos couldn’t say that he did, but he could go with that. “Becoming good men for the French people. That makes us sound like vigilantes.”

Aramis pressed his head back into Porthos’ hand like a cat. “Or maybe we’ll invite more than just the gentry to our feasts. Become benevolent landowners.”

With that, Athos certainly had no experience. Based on his rather extensive experience, there was precious little benevolence to be found among the landed gentry.

“I don’t know.” Porthos scratched his chin. “It just feels like… not enough. How much good could we really do?”

“We could feed hungry children, provide medical help… A fair bit,” Aramis said.

“While Richelieu sends out the army elsewhere to wipe out a town of thousands.” Athos grimaced. A few years ago, he would have seen a bit of charity for the locals as overly engaged, but his world had grown. He knew more now.

“We can’t stop that,” Aramis said. “Tréville tries, all the time. It’s the king who decides in the end, not us.”

Porthos sighed, deeply and with feeling. “It’s silly, I know, but I want to do the right thing. I’ve had so many opportunities, so much luck in life. And I want to share that with others.”

Porthos. Of all people. Talking of luck and opportunities. “You’ve put in a lot of work,” Athos said. “This wasn’t mere happenstance.”

Aramis squeezed Porthos’ hand. “You are magnificent,” he said. “And I agree, we need to do something with ourselves. We’ve got skills. And we’ve got a country that needs them.”

“Our skills at killing?” Athos asked. “Hardly.”

Porthos rolled his eyes. “Or how about your strategies and your rational mind?”

Athos sighed. The mind that got him into so much trouble, the mind that also often got them out of it. A mind that caused so much pain, but yes, he knew Porthos was right, it was also an asset.

“This country’s at war. Every country is at war right now and has been since we were young. And maybe we’ll always be at war.” Aramis worried his lip between his teeth. “And we’re good at it. Lord Jesus have mercy, but we are.”

Athos’ stomach tied itself into a big, solid knot. They were. They were not elite soldiers by accident. Captain Tréville did not waste his trust on unworthy men, that much was certain. Athos didn’t put much stock into the rumours that he was the best swordsman in all of France, but Aramis might well be the best shot. And all three of them were undeniably good at what they did. Fighting, shooting, fencing, grappling, but also strategizing, infiltrating, enduring… They were good at war.

A sobering thought.

“It’s not the only thing we’re good at,” Porthos said.

“But it’s what we’re best at,” Athos said. “No offence to your skills as a medic, Aramis.”

“None taken.” Aramis twirled one end of his moustache. “That feeds into it as well. Adds another layer to being good at it. Between the three of us, we are a perfect unit. We have everything to be a small strike force or indeed the nucleus of a larger army.”

“Mercenaries…” Porthos rubbed at a stain on Aramis’ shirt. “Swords for hire.”

“We’re good enough.” Aramis’ cocky grin challenged anyone to disagree with him, but it never quite reached his eyes. “But do we want that?”

“There are few options within France,” Athos said. “Unless you propose we lead a Guillaume Tell style uprising against all authority. For the people…”

Never mind that they would have to dispose of him fairly quickly if they did that. Comte Olivier d’Athos de la Fère, scion of one of the oldest and wealthiest families of France. He’d be among the first targets of any revolution, his head a treasured trophy. But they had no idea who he was.

Aramis shifted restlessly and Porthos scrunched up his face as if he had smelled something rotten. A stay of execution, maybe. They seemed about as much in favour of murdering the nobility as Athos himself was, even though their necks were not on the line.

“The king has God-given authority,” Aramis said. “He is our ruler for a reason. We must trust in the Lord to guide this land through His chosen monarch.”

Athos swallowed a sarcastic _Amen_ with some effort.

“It’s not just that,” Porthos said. “In any revolt there are casualties and the casualties will be ordinary people, not some pampered marquis and barons.” And comtes, Athos added in his mind. “If we’re on the side of the people, we can’t just go and let them get slaughtered.”

Like Porthos and his friends had been on the side of the king. Cannon fodder was a necessity on all sides. The poor would always be dispensable. Ordinary people, too common for their own good. But as Athos had learned over the years, people with ambitions and talents, nonetheless. No matter their rank, everyone bled and died the same. He bit down on his cheek. This wasn’t a time for morose sentimentality. They had yet to decide their future.

“This doesn’t leave us many options,” Athos said.

They all looked at each other. They knew. All roads were leading back to Paris, to the garrison.

Porthos shook his head. “There must be another option. We’re not going back without anything changing. I’m not losing you two to the politics and that.”

“You’re not losing us to anything.” Aramis patted his leg.

“But you’ll want to lose yourselves again.”

Athos cleared his throat before the scene could become too melodramatic. “If we do go back—”

“If,” Porthos interrupted him.

“If we go back, we have to obey orders,” Athos said. “They will make us go to the next La Rochelle, the next Montpellier.”

“The next Nègrepelisse.” Aramis’ shoulders were curling forward and his face was glum. Porthos squeezed him tight against his chest.

“But I have no particular desire to be shot for mutiny,” Athos said. Or more accurately, no desire to see _them_ shot for mutiny.

They sat in silence, picking at loose threads, kneading their brows.

“The way I see it,” Athos said. “What we want to do and how we want to do it are incompatible. We want to be musketeers, but not be commanded.”

“I don’t mind Tréville,” Aramis said.

Porthos snorted. “Don’t mind him… I bloody love the guy. I’d follow him anywhere.”

He would. And he had. And he’d do it again and again. Desperate for Captain Tréville’s approval like a young boy wanting to impress his father.

“I trust him with our lives,” Athos said. He trusted him more than anyone outside of this room.

“And me,” Porthos said.

Aramis sighed. “Yes, definitely. But he takes orders from the king. And _he_ will obey.”

“He tries to—”

Aramis shook his head. “The king doesn’t listen to him. The king listens to Richelieu. Tréville will soften the blow where he can, but in the end, we know who steers the ship.”

“And we disapprove of his course.” Athos massaged his temples. This conundrum was giving him a headache.

“Trouble is, the war’s going to go on with or without us,” Aramis said. “We might as well go and shape it. I hate being a victim.” He chuckled softly. “Might as well be the perpetrator.”

“Don’t say that.” Porthos glared at him.

Aramis was right, though. As little influence as they had now, they would have much less as vigilantes or mercenaries. As musketeers, they were at the centre of power. That had to count for something even though the cardinal was ultimately in charge. They were still there. They weren’t the ones giving the orders, but at the very least they were the ones executing them.

“We can do more good as musketeers than we could anywhere else,” he said. “We have some influence. Captain Tréville has even more.”

“And we have influence over Tréville,” Aramis said.

“No we don’t.” Porthos looked aghast. “He’s the captain!”

“And what exactly is he going to do…” Aramis paused, staring into the distance as if the right words would come flying in through the window. “… if we… take some _liberties_ with his orders?”

Oh. That was… Mutiny, of course. Rebellion. Insurrection. But… what _would_ he do?

“We can’t go against orders.” Porthos crossed his arms and stuck out his chin as if that settled the matter.

“Not go against them, no,” Aramis said. “I’m just suggesting… some creativity. A little more focus on what is right.”

“What _we_ think is right.”

“Tréville might agree.”

Athos scratched his chin. He would, probably. Captain Tréville was a thoroughly decent and honourable man. A career soldier, not a rich boy whose father had bought him a commission. He’d made his way up through the ranks, had served his time. Had the skill to prove it. And the heart. He cared about his men. And he particularly cared about them. He expected much of them, but unwavering loyalty… loyalty to what? The letter of his orders or the intention? Particularly in orders that Captain Tréville had not devised himself, it was probably the latter. He could say what he needed to say and they could still do what they needed to do. It was an option.

“He would cover for us where he could,” Athos said. “We’d have to be careful, though. We have some freedom in interpreting orders, I reckon, but opposing them or indeed exposing Captain Tréville in front of the cardinal…”

“But there’s more good we can do as musketeers,” Aramis said. “We are closer to the king than his own wife. He certainly sees more of us. We could achieve so much more.”

“But would it be better for you?” Porthos asked.

“We’re aiming for the good of the country here.” Aramis rolled his eyes.

Porthos kissed the top of his head. “And you just happen to be my favourite parts of the country.”

“You soppy oaf.” Aramis punched him, but there was no real venom behind it. The country was one thing. A big and important thing, for sure, but Athos agreed with Porthos. Certain parts of the country came first.

Would it make a difference? Some creative interpretation of orders… Did they have enough room for it to make a difference? Without giving Richelieu excuses for disbanding the regiment?

“We could try,” Athos said. “Over the winter we test how far we can stretch the boundaries. Then once we are back in the field…”

“No killing of innocents.” Aramis grimaced. “Or at least less of it.”

“No destruction of livelihoods,” Athos added. “If we can help it.”

“Or happiness,” Porthos said. “People need that as well.”

“Good things for good people,” Athos summarised. “But under the auspices of the musketeers.”

“I could do that,” Aramis said.

Could Athos? Probably. It probably mattered less to him than to them. Whatever good he did, he knew he would never make up for the evil he had done, had condoned. His cloud would never lift. He didn’t crave goodness like his friends. He craved a purpose for this miserable existence, a justification. Being a musketeer would at the very least give him that. It would also give him them.

“So could I,” he said.

“I’m not sure.” Porthos grimaced. “It feels like we’ve just escaped and now we’re running back into the burning house. It scares me.”

How easily he admitted fear… it was a thing of beauty somehow. Such honesty and simplicity.

“We’re not running alone.” Athos leaned forward to put his hand on Porthos’.

“We’ve got each other,” Aramis said. “To support us and also to pull us back when it gets too hot.”

He put his hand on top of theirs.

“One for all.”

“And all for one.”

*****

Aramis prayed for them. Porthos and Athos respectfully lowered their heads. Aramis prayed for their safety on the road and for their future. It felt good to be included in that. It was still a surprise that he had a future. A future with them and a future with the musketeers. A pleasant surprise.

They settled the bill and Athos was glad to have left behind some more money underneath the pillow in his bed. The rates Madame Pettit charged were too low even without considering the plethora of foodstuff she forced them to take on the road with them.

“We will be eating the whole way to Chenonceaux.” Athos shook his head as he tried to squeeze more sausages into his saddlebags.

“I could think of worse things.” Porthos snatched one of the sausages and took a bite. “These are delicious.”

“Hope you’re saving up for new clothes,” Aramis said. “At the rate you’re going, maybe you should just wear a tent and be done with it.”

So normal. Teasing each other. Laughter that was actually a sign of humour, not of despair. Real, actual joy. It had been too long since they had ridden out together like that. More than a year. Athos took a deep breath as they left the town behind with all the good wishes of its inhabitants.

Back on the road. And for once, the road did not feel threatening.

Even the weather seemed to approve of their plans, the weak winter sun chasing small white clouds across the endless sky. They expected no trouble on the road, nothing large enough to really challenge them. Before nightfall they should reach the castle and rejoin their regiment.

This day was so different than the one that had brought them here a week ago. It felt right. Or maybe it just felt good to have a plan, any plan. Or maybe anything felt good as long as he did it with them. Really with them. In body and in spirit. He had not done that for a long time either.

One week had made all the difference. Whether that was down to the healing waters was debateable, but Athos silently praised Captain Tréville’s foresight. Had he known? He had certainly known they were struggling and needed time to reconnect. But had he known the depth of their doubts? And if so… was he expecting them back at all? Or would he be surprised? Or did he know them so well that he had predicted this outcome?

They made good time with both the weather and the terrain working in their favour. With the recent frost, the road wasn’t overly muddy and like the locals had told them, it was small, but in decent shape.

“I’m glad we’ve decided to go back to Paris,” Aramis said. “I’d lose my mind to boredom in a place like this.”

He made a sweeping gesture taking in their environment. The land was flatter than the sea, but except for a few scattered farmhouses, there was no sign of human habitation anywhere.

“Oh please,” Porthos said. “There’d always be a beautiful widow, your Madame Couture, or maybe an Odette Pettit. They must have inns and innkeeper’s daughters around here. They’d keep you company.”

“Odette Pettit?” Aramis feigned outrage. “She is smitten with Athos. I have no chance.”

“With him?” Porthos laughed. “Poor thing.”

“She was giving him these winsome looks.” Aramis demonstrated, fluttering his eyelashes. Athos felt the blood rise in his cheeks.

“She wasn’t,” he said. “Now if we press on for another hour we should make it to—”

“He’s stalling. He knows it’s true!” Both of them were laughing now and even though it was at his expense, Athos couldn’t find it in him to be upset with them. He’d much rather have them tease him than to fall back into the terrible state he had been in when they rode into La Roche-Posay a week earlier. He could take a few light jibes even when they made his face burn with embarrassment.

They had a long ride ahead, testing the endurance of their horses, as well as their own after so much rest, but the time passed swiftly. The landscape helped them feel at ease. With only very few small copses of trees between them and the horizon, nobody would be able to sneak up on them unnoticed, nobody would pose a threat. They would always keep an eye on their surroundings, but they were not paranoid about it here. There was safety in numbers as well as in loneliness.

There was plenty of friendly banter, alliances forming and dissolving as quickly as they did in their sparring, but the majority of time they rode in silence. In a way, that felt even better. It was a content silence, safe in the knowledge that they weren’t hiding anything, that they were in this together.

The Château de Loches appeared at the horizon around midday, the tall white walls and many spires of the royal residence reaching heavenwards from a prominent rocky outcrop. As they came closer, they could make out the small town clustered around the castle as if the houses themselves were seeking shelter at the foot of this rare feature in the flat, empty land.

They stopped at a busy postal inn with a large stable. While they had plenty of food to last them the day, both horses and riders could do with a break. At the very least they would be able to warm up in front of the fireplace.

Athos secured them a table right next to the fire, dragging one chair particularly close for Aramis. He was like a cat; even when he wasn’t emotionally compromised, he loved the warmth. Meanwhile, Porthos bought some spiced wine for them.

Aramis joined them after they had already drained the first cup.

“Where have you been?” Porthos raised an eyebrow. “Something wrong with Angelina?”

Aramis smirked. “If there was, there’d be something very wrong with the stable boys by now. Nah, I was getting this.”

He held out a paper, pen, and inkwell. “Time to write to my family.”

He took a deep breath and smoothed out the paper. Porthos squeezed his hand.

“You’re alright. They’ll love hearing from you.”

Aramis’ smile was uncharacteristically timid. He was looking at them from underneath his lashes, but for once it wasn’t flirtatious. He seemed genuinely insecure.

“What worries you?” Athos asked.

Aramis breathed in and out a few times, closing his eyes.

“I don’t want to disappoint them.”

“They’re your family,” Porthos said. “Of course they won’t be disappointed.”

It was so simple for Porthos. A family. Unconditional love at all times. There was no question in his mind. And who would want to rob him of that illusion? He had no family of his own. The very least he deserved was a perfect mental image of one. But Athos knew it was rarely that simple. Disappointment ran deep and came from many unseen sources.

“They will be pleased you are alive,” Athos said. That much he would have been able to say about his own family. “That you saved the king’s life, worked closely with Captain Tréville, they will be proud of that.”

He deliberately left out all the parts that had been dangerous and depressing. No need to burden anyone with the knowledge of Aramis’ kidnapping or their contemplation of desertion. The latter certainly could not be committed to paper if they valued their lives. Not all letters reached their recipients and fewer still reached them without any interference.

“What does it matter to them?” Aramis stared at his fingers.

“Their king matters,” Athos said. Or at least the king would have mattered to his parents. Their son saving the king’s life would have been cause for celebration, but mostly for elaborate schemes to be put in place to make the most of that opportunity to further the family’s fortunes. Maybe his family wasn’t the right measure for Aramis’.

“Or tell them that you saved me.” Porthos smiled at them. “You learned about healing people at home, didn’t you? Or tell them about the baths you made us. I know you learned about herbs from your mother.”

Aramis twisted the pen between his fingers, round and round and round. “They didn’t raise me like this,” he said softly.

“Like what?” Athos asked. “To take care of your friends, to save lives?”

“To be a musketeer. A soldier. A killer.”

“You’re not a killer.”

“They take no pride in fighting, in all this violence. They are the _love thy neighbour_ sort of Christians, not the _eye for an eye_ kind. They raised me to love.”

Porthos took Aramis’ hands in his own. “And you do.”

A smile twitched across Aramis’ face, but it was only a flicker, gone within seconds. “Not in the way they’d want me to.”

Porthos chuckled and Athos smirked.

“You have nothing to be ashamed of,” Athos said. “You have served your king with honour. We have taken an enemy stronghold without a fight. You have alleviated suffering. All good things.”

“All a matter of how you present it.” Aramis gnawed on his bottom lip.

“Isn’t everything?”

Aramis grimaced. “I guess.”

“Focus on the future,” Athos suggested. “Tell them we’re on our way back to Paris. That we are safe and will be resting over the winter. That they won’t have to worry.”

Because Aramis’ family would worry. How many months since his last letter? Had they even known he was at La Rochelle? Had they guessed? They must know that the musketeers went where the king was. If they had heard that the king had been back in Paris that spring… that would not have been comforting to them at all. To know that and still not hear from their son.

“That’s good,” Aramis said. “No need to look back.”

Porthos looked like he had bitten onto a peppercorn, but he didn’t say anything. Athos nodded to him. Yes, they’d have to look back. That was understood. But this wasn’t the time and place for it. Why share their horrors with civilians? Why burden them with the knowledge of how morally ambiguous the monarchy and the church they believed in truly were.

With another deep breath, Aramis began to write.

His writing was, like so much about him, beautiful and done with a flourish. His words were, too. Each sentence was a work of art, of poetry. There’d be no mistaking it for anyone else’s work.

“They’ll worry,” Aramis said as he sealed the letter with some wax from a nearby candle. Athos’ fingers itched to press a signet ring into the liquid. He couldn’t, of course. Neither was it his letter to seal, nor did he have his ring anymore.

“Why?” Porthos asked. “You didn’t mention anything bad.”

“No, but the letter.” Aramis stared at it. “When there’s a letter in their town, it’s usually bad news. Tréville sent them one after Savoy. Ever since… it’s difficult.”

“No news is good news.”

“Something like that.”

“It’ll only last a minute,” Athos said. “Address it in your own writing and they’ll know you’re alive.”

Aramis laughed softly. “I’m making a fool of myself.”

“You’re not.”

“Eh…” Porthos grinned. “I wouldn’t say that. But you’re our favourite fool.”

Judging by Aramis’ sudden jerk forwards and Porthos’ howl of pain, some kicking of shins or stomping on toes had taken place. Athos frowned in his best impression of a peevish tutor, which made them laugh.

Aramis drained his cup of spiced wine. “Thank you,” he said, stroking the paper. “I didn’t feel like I could, but I knew it was important. They deserve to know I’m safe, even if I never want them to know about most of what happened.”

Athos nodded. “Shield them from what it is really like but keep them informed.”

“They’ll be so happy,” Porthos added. “I still remember your brother. If looks could kill, I tell you…”

“He appreciates all you did for me,” Aramis said. “He was just worried.”

Athos raised an eyebrow as the conversation was bypassing him completely.

“When Tréville wrote to them after Savoy,” Aramis said. “He was very careful. Didn’t want to make any promises. So Antoine came to Paris as quickly as he could, but it was a few weeks later, so he expected to sort through my belongings and visit my grave. Instead he finds me alive and Porthos right there, glowering at him.”

“Wasn’t just me doing the glowering,” Porthos said.

“Yes, but he’s a full foot shorter than you and would struggle to even lift your sword.”

“I wasn’t lifting any sword!”

“He’d never been to Paris before, never seen a musketeer, didn’t know what to do with me, and then on top of it all, there’s you treating him like he’s accused of treason. No wonder he was wetting his breeches!”

“Maybe you should rethink writing about saving Porthos’ life as a triumph,” Athos said. “Sounds like your brother might not see that as a victory.”

“He’s gotten over it,” Aramis said. “I’m pretty sure my mother has adopted the two of you by now.”

“Why’s that?”

“I write every Christmas,” Aramis said. “Well, almost every year. And I’ve mentioned you. She’ll love anyone who is good to me.”

Almost every Christmas. Of course, letters were expensive for him. Those little reminders of their different status still caught Athos by surprise from time to time. The small things he had taken for granted, like sending a private messenger whenever he wanted.

The postal system, if expensive, was at least efficient. In a small room next to the stables, a young man accepted Aramis’ letter and carefully put it into the bag for the next mail going North.

As Athos had predicted, Porthos was fascinated by the complex operation, especially the large map of France and all its postal routes that filled one wall of the room. He was always enthralled by Captain Tréville’s maps, the small ones they used for missions. But it was clear that he had never seen one like this. His hand hovered over the town where Aramis’ family was.

“So far away,” he said, staring at the little circle, one among many along the thick yellow lines. “But in a few days… they’ll be all better. They’ll know you’re fine.”

Aramis put a hand on his shoulder. “And they’ll know about you as well.”

Porthos smiled. “That’s even more incredible.”

“They’ll be happy about it,” Aramis said. “They care about everyone I care for.”

“You haven’t told them about anyone other than us.”

“Maybe I don’t care about anyone else all that much.”

Athos swallowed against the lump in his throat. Caring about people. It was still an alien, often uncomfortable feeling for him. He cared, of course he did. But admitting it was a struggle. Admitting that others cared about him, even more so.

“They are your family,” he said. “That’s the priority.”

“You’re my family, too,” Aramis said. “They understand where I’ve come from, but you understand where I’m going.”


End file.
